More Than A Game
by SaraiEsq
Summary: "It's nothing serious," Mike Stoker says repeatedly. So why won't Chet Kelly and Patty McConnikee believe him? Is it because they both already know that life as a firefighter is more than a game? Follows 'The Call of the Day' and 'BackStories:COTD.'
1. Prelude

**PRELUDE**

=+++= / +====

(22 August)

The boy had been about eight years old.

He had a thick head of sandy-colored hair and a smattering of freckles. When Mike had lifted him from the floor of the playroom, his limpness had been alarming and telling: it was recovery, not rescue, for this one. He tightened his hold on the body, pulling the boy's head into his shoulder, and grimly turned back toward the living room, crouching as he followed John through the smoky darkness.

Once he was outside again, in the warm California sunlight, he automatically went to Big Red and sat down on the running boards, shifting the still child in his arms slightly. Coughing, he pulled off one glove with his teeth. Mike felt for a pulse in the boy's neck, knowing it was futile because he could smell death on the boy more clearly now, could feel the waxy texture of his skin, could see the blackened teeth in the half-open mouth, but doing it anyway, checking again and again, hoping for some sign of life. One of the guys from the other engine company stepped over and gently pulled Mike's hands away from the boy's neck, picked up the body, and tenderly carried it over to the yellow blankets that seemed to have appeared magically on the grass. _How long – ?_

Someone else broke out the extra oxygen from the engine and pushed the mask onto Mike's face. Mike started sucking the oxygen, eyes closed, wishing he could get _that_ _smell_ out of his nostrils. When his coughing eased some, Stoker tried to push himself up, to stand his post. He had work to do. Chet and Marco were depending on him to do it. If the fire was still burning, he needed to make sure the water was still flowing.

_That's__ my job_, he thought bitterly, _not recovering dead kids from hell – _. A stab of shame caught him in the throat and he choked off the thought, struggling to get his breathing and his emotions under control. He had work to do. He grabbed hold of Big Red, grateful for her cool metal bulk. _Stand __up__. Do your job, Stoker, do your – ._

"L.A., this is Engine 51. Cancel additional ambulances. Respond the coroner and the chaplain this location." The smoke-infested rasp of Captain Stanley's voice continued after a pause littered with muffled coughs. "We have Code F times six – repeat, Code F times _six_ – and will need transport." There was another pause before he continued, the words dragged out of him. "Be advised these are six, uh, juveniles."

"10-4, Engine 51. Requesting coroner, chaplain, and transport for Code F juvenile times six." Sam Lanier's calm voice notwithstanding, Stoker felt his throat start to close up again. Hunched over beside the big Ward LaFrance, he couldn't seem to draw in any air. Another unwelcome thought slid through his mind as he doubled over completely: _Was this what it had been like for the boy?_ He barely heard Hank request an ETA on law enforcement as he continued to gag and retch and cough and _not breathe _– .

"Stoker. Look at me." Davey McRaines laid a reassuring hand on Mike's shoulder; Mike looked up at the paramedic from 84s with pain evident in his watery, blood-shot eyes. "Try to relax for me. That's it. It'll be okay, man, it'll be okay," he murmured, pushing the engineer back into a sitting position. From the mask that was back on his face, Mike began to suck sweet cool oxygen into his lungs again. "Let me check you out now," Davey continued, freeing Mike's arm from his coat so he could wrap a blood pressure cuff around it. He kept up a light patter of stock paramedic comfort phrases as he finished his evaluation. "That's better, Mike, just keep breathing for – ."

His soothing words were shattered when a woman began screaming: "My son, where's my son? Oh, no. No. Nonono_no. __**No!**_ Please, dear God, not Mi – ."

=+++= / ++===

_Breathe in, two, three. Breathe out, two, three. Breathe in, two, three. Breathe out, two, three. _

"Ahh! There's my favorite firefighter specialist." The lilting voice prompted Mike to open his eyes and focus on the fair-haired nurse peering down at him. "I heard you'd come in while I was on my break."

"Miss McCall," he replied through the oxygen mask, voice still a little scratchy.

"Call me Dixie," she reminded him with a gentle smile as she charted his vitals. "You've got about 45 minutes left of your breathing treatment. If your lungs are clear, you can return to the station then, if you feel up to it. How does that sound?"

"Good," he murmured, then coughed deeply, gagging. "Thanks, Dixie," he said after she matter-of-factly provided a means to discretely rid himself of the albuterol-flavored mucus the last round of coughing had brought up. He'd used up the few industrial paper towels the respiratory aide had provided.

"You're welcome, Mike," she replied, adjusting his mask and resisting the urge to brush his hair back from his forehead. "Now, just try to relax – and keep taking those good, deep breaths for me." A small cough overwhelmed his verbal response, leading him to merely nod instead. "I'll be back to check in on you later."

"Right," he rasped tiredly and closed his blue eyes, concentrating on his breathing.

_Breathe in, two, three. Breathe out, two, three. Breathe in, two, three. Breathe out, two, three. _

And nothing else.

_Don't think, two, three. Just breathe, two, three. Forget, two, three. His name, two, three._

=+++= / +++==

(26 August)

Towel still wrapped around his waist, he stared at the dress uniform hanging on the back of his bedroom door. It was still cloaked in clear plastic from the dry cleaners, ready to be decorated with the rank, commendations, and badge earned by one Firefighter Specialist Michael D. Stoker over the past ten years of faithful service with the Los Angeles County Fire Department.

He had planned to wear it to the boy's funeral later today, as a show of respect. He half-expected an official presence at the funeral, although that would ultimately be up to the family. Departmental regulations required neither but allowed both … or so he'd learned when he inquired about dress uniform protocols a few days ago.

Now as he fingered the double row of citation bars he'd been about to pin on, moving slowly from bottom right to top left – time in service … FEO … extrication specialty … engineer of the year … honor guard … unit citations … courage – he suddenly felt unworthy of wearing the uniform he'd worked for all those years.

_What kind of a fireman can I be_, he asked himself, _if I fail to put the lives of helpless children before my own, whatever the cost, whatever the outcome? Where did that man go?_

When he left his apartment twenty minutes later, his unadorned dress uniform remained, unable to completely conceal the door's newly-acquired scars.

=+++= / ++++=

The hour-long drive to the small town cemetery, where the only service would be, passed quickly and, before he knew it, he was parking his truck along the narrow street. The cloyingly sweet aroma of ripe apricots from the nearby grove enveloped him as his eyes wandered across the hills bordering the cemetery, part of the Los Padres National Forest. He noted other early arrivals as he waited but got out only when he spied the hearse making its slow way down the potholed lane.

Despite his restrained pace, his long legs took him too quickly to the graveside; the smell of fresh dirt assaulted his nose as he drew near. Halting behind the last row of seats, the fireman fumbled briefly for the talisman buried away in his pocket and then slipped on his sunglasses. And, at once, he became the nondescript mourner in a somber dark suit and tie ... posture rigid … jaw clenched … bloodied right fist wrapped tightly around the St. Florian medal with its plain green ribbon.

=+++= / =+++=

_This story follows immediately the events in 'The Call of the Day' __and__ the associated sketches in 'BackStories: The Call of the Day.' The careful reader will notice some inconsistencies between the sketches and this story; these inconsistencies arose during the development of the sketches into more polished works. My apologies for not being able to follow my usual SOP and post the entire story at once; certain characters are being … stubborn._

_I do this for fun not profit. The characters (with the exception of Patty McConnikee, Henry McConnikee and other minor original characters) are not mine; the mistakes (without exception) are._


	2. Capture the Flag

**CHAPTER 1: CAPTURE THE FLAG**

+===+ / +====

(3-4 September)

"Go, go, _go_," Mike Stoker urged as the traffic barely crawling along in front of him stopped _again_. He'd accepted the fact that he was going to be later to work than usual when he had discovered the lack of clean uniforms in his apartment this morning. Stopping by the dry cleaner's had taken only a few minutes but those few minutes had been enough to put him squarely in the middle of the slug of heavy traffic he usually missed by coming in early. He knew it was his own fault, forgetting to pick up his uniforms when he'd gotten off an overtime shift the day before, but that didn't mean he had to like it.

Now he only wanted to get to the station before shift-change. _Miller won't be happy if he's got to stay over on my account_, he thought as he considered taking to the shoulder of the freeway despite the illegality of it. _The exit is just, what, a half-mile up on the left? And it's not like I've never driven on the shoulder before_, he rationalized, _probably even this exact shoulder._ "Nothing to it," he muttered under his breath, making his decision. _What I wouldn't give for Big Red's lights and sirens right now._

He inched his truck to the left during the traffic's next lurch forward, moving perhaps two feet into the shoulder before the mechanical mass jolted to a stop once more, effectively pinning him half-in, half-out of the lane. Stoker checked his rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of flashing lights behind him, and groaned inwardly. _Smooth, Stoker, real smooth. Blocking the emergency vehicle lane was __not__ on the agenda today._ He turned his wheels back to the right and moved forward about a foot, eyeing the space now between him and the concrete divider professionally. Any emergency vehicle – other than a rig like his engine – could fit through with little problem. If he had the chance, he could rectify the remaining width issue with the next shift of traffic.

The powerful thrum of a motorcycle pulled up next to his open window less than a minute later. He noted a second motor officer had paused behind his truck, probably verifying his plates – the firefighter vanity plates he'd sprung for when he'd renewed his tags just over a month ago. _Oh, great_, he thought, remembering exactly what his plates read now, _that's all I need._ He shifted the truck into neutral, foot firmly on the brake. Mike resolutely turned to face the California Highway Patrol motor officer, keeping his right hand on the steering wheel while his left grasped the bar behind the open wing window. _Hands in sight, pleasant demeanor, no trouble at all, officer._

"Sir, are you aware this lane is reserved for emergency vehicles?" the officer asked politely, eyes obscured by dark sunglasses with gold wire rims. Stoker fully expected a lecture; he was prepared to accept a warning or a ticket. _How many times have I wanted to quote the statute to some civilian blocking our way to an MVA on the 405? _

"I am, sir." The lack of additional lights and sirens behind him eased his guilt slightly; at least he wasn't _actually_ impeding an emergency vehicle. Not that he had to _actually_ impede an emergency vehicle to be ticketed.

"Are you experiencing an emergency of some kind?" The morning sun glinted off the officer's blue and gold helmet, as his partner rode up beside him and nodded, making an obscure hand gesture at the same time. "Do you need a police escort somewhere?"

"Uh, no. No, sir." Mike noticed the traffic on the incline was starting to crawl forward again and hoped the CHiPs would be content with a verbal warning. There was still time to make it to the fire station if they didn't make an _issue_ of his vanity plat – .

The officer's even, impossibly white teeth flashed as a huge grin split his darkly-tanned Hispanic face. "Then where's the fire, … HOTSTF?" he asked. As the two cops shared a laugh at Mike's expense, he tried to smile good-naturedly while wondering how much worse this still brand-new day could get since the throb in his side when he twisted to retrieve his license and registration suggested it wasn't likely to get any better.

+===+ / ++===

"But my question is _why_. When he just wants OT, he finds an engineer who needs off. So why's Stoker picking up shifts as a _lineman_?" Chet asked Johnny's retreating back, the coffee-craving paramedic's dismissive wave his only comment.

"Because Stoker wants to pick up shifts as a lineman," a quiet voice said behind him. _Trust Chet to find out about – linemen are just about the worst gossips in the department._

"That's not a reason, Mike," Chet said, turning to face the other man, a brief flare of embarrassment lighting his face. Mike met his eyes, raising an eyebrow, as he unbuttoned his tan shirt and shrugged out of it. When Stoker turned and reached for a hanger, Chet caught sight of Mike's flank. "What the hell, man?" he said, pushing the engineer's arm up to examine a line of bruises decorating his side.

"It's nothing serious," Mike said, firmly pulling his arm away. He dragged the plastic bag off his dry cleaning and removed the crisp blue garment from its clutches; slipping on his uniform shirt, he began to button it automatically with nimble fingers. _I am not going into __that__ with Chet, or anyone else, if I can help it._

"What's nothing serious?" Roy asked from the doorway of the locker room. The tension in the room was unusual for this time of day, suggesting Johnny's ritual grumble about Chet's annoying persistence had been more than the caffeine deprivation talking after all.

"Look," Chet said, pulling up the blue shirt to display Mike's side. The senior paramedic stepped closer when he caught a glimpse of the purpling bruises.

"Hands off the threads," the taller man said, striving to keep his tone light as he brushed off Kelly's hands, causing the shirt to fall back in place before it could wrinkle. DeSoto cocked his head at Mike who returned the gaze neutrally before dropping his eyes. Stoker knew Roy had plenty of experience getting reluctant firemen – namely Gage – to submit to his examination and wasn't above siccing Cap on the more recalcitrant. And, right now, DeSoto had _that_ look on his face, the _'I'll tell Dad if you don't let me see your boo-boo'_ look_._

"It's nothing serious," Mike reiterated, but unbuttoned his shirt and slid one arm out. With a whisper of a smile, he raised his arm, put his hand on the back of his head – and flexed his muscles like a bodybuilder.

"Yeah, nothing serious," Roy teased, the corner of his mouth quirking up in amusement. "Oh, you meant the bruises not the muscles, didn't ya?" A few careful pokes and prods, a few murmured questions, and Roy was satisfied of Mike's basic fitness for duty. Chet leaned against his locker and watched quietly, recognizing the pattern of bruises.

"Roll call, fellas," Captain Stanley called, pushing open the door to the locker room and stopping short at the sight of DeSoto examining Stoker. "What's up?" he said in a voice which suggested a straight answer would be advisable.

"It's nothing serious, Cap," Mike repeated again. _I'm a broken record. _"I just got a little banged up while at 86s yesterday." The macho pose he'd adopted made him feel foolish now, in front of his captain, but he remained motionless. Pretty much any movement he could make could be construed as trying to hide his injury, something Cap frowned on.

"He looks okay," Roy added, knowing that would be the next question.

"Then I suggest we get down to business," Hank said, after eyeing the bruises for himself. _I just might have to give Frankie a call and find out what he's been doing to my engineer over there. If I didn't know better, I'd say Mike'd spent some time on the wrong end of a hard hose. _He caught a glimpse of Chet's expression, a mixture of anger and concern, as Chet turned to leave. _And what's that look for?_ "Roll call in two minutes," he said over his shoulder. Roy nodded to Mike and followed the others out.

Stoker slipped his shirt back on, rapidly buttoning, tucking and straightening. He pinned on his badge and nametag, glanced at his appearance in the mirror, and stepped out into the bay. _What a morning_, he thought as he lined up beside the others. _At least Miller didn't have to stay over because of my stupidity. That's one good thing._

+===+ / +++==

By arriving less than ten minutes before the shift started, instead of his usual thirty to forty minutes, Mike felt behind most of the day. The niggling feeling that he had forgotten to do something, something important, plagued the engineer most of the morning as he went through knot-tying drills with everyone, hanging hose with Marco, and cleaning the latrines on his own, the station's two nuisance runs barely making a ripple in his ruminations.

At lunch, Chet launched into a highly improbable version of being rescued by a bevy of beautiful women when his van had broken down in Ventura County recently. Stoker ignored him for the most part, concentrating on the article he was reading on improved pump impeller design while working his way through Gage's uninspired culinary offering of hamburgers, fries, and straight-from-the can baked beans. He suspected supper would be just as unremarkable.

_The heart of the department is the fire engine. The heart of the fire engine is the pump. The heart of the pump is the impeller._

"So there I am, … an overheated engine … Piru Canyon Road … thinkin' this'll be easy … ."

_One of the key characteristics of the impeller is the eye, where water is first introduced. An impeller may have either a single or a dual eye. Dual-eye impeller pumps are also known as two-stage pumps and function in either series or parallel (volume) modes._

"… flag down the next car … convertible whizzes past … four, count 'em, four blondes … ."

_FEOs in mountainous areas should be aware of the performance differences during drafting operations between these impeller types. The dual-eye impeller has the advantage in this category due to its ability to perform drafting at altitudes of up to 10,300 feet; the single-eye impeller was able to function only to an altitude of 4,300 feet. _

"… next thing _I_ know Gretchen is … engine wasn't the only thing overheating … ."

_All pumps generate potentially damaging amounts of heat while in stand-by mode. A two-stage pump in parallel mode will overheat faster than a single-stage pump of the same size, due to the greater efficiency of the single-stage design at zero flow. In series mode, the two-stage pump lasts somewhat longer than the single-stage. _

"Give it a rest, Kelly," Johnny said finally. "I bet it was a carload of little old ladies that stopped to help. That's about the only kind of woman you'd be able to flag down," he added disdainfully as he reached for his third hamburger.

_Flag down. _Mike's brain snagged onto the words flowing around him.

"Like _you'd_ be able to flag down a hot chick – ," Chet responded.

_Flag. Down. You idiot!_

Stoker stood up abruptly, his chair shooting back from the table with a screech, and strode purposefully from the room, leaving the others to stare. The sound of a metal file cabinet drawer in the office being opened was clearly audible, as was the sound said drawer made upon being slammed shut. Cap narrowed his eyes and cocked his head to listen to his engineer's progress through the station. The _thwack_ made by the front door smacking into the brick wall caused Hank to stand up and leave the table as well.

A few minutes later both men returned, Stanley subtly shaking his head at the rest of the crew to discourage questions and Stoker shooting Chet an irritated glare before retrieving his magazine from the floor and returning to his meal.

_Tips to avoid overheating. The key to prevent overheating is a combination of appropriate hardware and operating procedures. Thermostats, temperature relief valves, and pump cooling lines, however, are no substitute for an FEO who knows his job and keeps his cool in all situations. _

+===+ / ++++=

" … always handled raising the flags; it's just part of his routine."

"Are you serious, Cap? The _flags_? If that's the case, I'll never touch 'em again. All I was tryin' to do was help out since he was late."

"I know, Chet." Pause. "Something else bothering you?"

"Just wondering what's going on with him."

"I don't know if it helps, but when I asked him that question, he said it was just a bad day, nothing serious."

"He's been saying that a lot it seems."

+===+ / +++++

For the rest of the afternoon, the others stepped lightly around a stone-faced Stoker who occupied himself between runs by inspecting Big Red from undercarriage to roof lights, from fire hose to fuse panel. The quiet time in communion with his fire engine restored his equilibrium and he found himself ready to make amends for his uncharacteristic grouchiness. His casual offer to make supper in place of Gage was accepted with a gratifying alacrity. As he concentrated on each step, the task of cooking soothed him further; the relaxed banter of his fellow firefighters filled the background with blessed normalcy.

_Chop the onions, not too fine this time. Sliver the green peppers. _

"I'm tellin' ya, Roy, this dude ranch is a great place for a vaca – ."

_Cube the yellow summer squash. String the fresh green beans. Sneak one into your mouth. _

"It sounds an awful lot like the farm we went to and you know how that ende – ."

_Crush the garlic. Turn the lemony chicken baking in the oven. Start the rice. _

"Miguel was our striker, so if we make it to the playoffs this year, it will truly be a mira – ."

_Heat the olive oil in the large skillet. Add the garlic. _

"Sorry to hear that, man. You said he broke his leg dancing at his sister's wedding? That's rough, really roug – ."

_Add the green beans. Stir briskly to coat. Cover._

"Henry! Do you have the paper?"

_When the green is bright, you know the time is right; remove 'em, keep 'em warm, to yield a crunchy form. _

"Yeah, _Chester_, as a matter of fact, I do. What's it to ya?"

"Oh, sorry, Cap! I meant _Henry_."

_Pour most of the garlic-infused oil into a small saucepan._

"Just don't talk to the dog that way, okay, pal? Not unless you're gonna change his name."

_Add the onions, the peppers, the squash to the still lightly-greased hot skillet. Stir. Cover. _

"My wife thinks I ought to – ."

_Heat a cup of honey in the saucepan. _

"All I want to do though is – ."

_Add soy sauce. _

"There's value in that approach, Roy, but take it from me: when it comes to wives, the best thing to do is – ."

_Add cayenne pepper sauce. Stir until it boils._

"Hey Johnny, did you see the new nurse at Rampart, the one with the – ."

_Check the rice. Remove the chicken from the oven. Stir the vegetables one last time. _

"As a matter of fact, I did. Her name is Shelia and she is really into sailing – ."

_Spoon into serving dishes. Present meal-shaped apology!_

"Chow's on," Stoker said at last, carrying the first of the bowls to the table, aware the rich smells of garlic and peppers had lured the others into the vicinity long ago. Since Marco had set the table and made iced tea, everything else was ready. Mike brought the pan of chicken over next, setting it between Cap and John on the rope-and-cork trivet decorated to look like a fire engine. A Girl Scout troop had given it to them in appreciation for a tour of the station.

He collected the rest of the meal from the stove and turned back toward the table. The too-hot bowl of rice slipped from his fingers, bouncing once before it spilled its contents across the floor. Mike gritted his teeth, annoyance with himself flaring bright again. _Am I gonna catch a break anytime today? _he asked himself. "Here are the green beans," he said aloud, thrusting the other bowl at Johnny who'd hopped up to help. "Go ahead and eat, guys; I've got this." Mike exited the room without waiting for an answer, headed for the broom closet in the bay. When he yanked the door open a bit too forcefully, the dust pan spun off its hook and skittered across the floor toward the back of the squad.

Stoker took a step toward it, bent over to get it, touched it with his fingers, and suddenly couldn't seem to breathe. _This is getting old fast_, he thought as he tried to suck air in, past the invisible hand wrapped around his throat. He flailed his other hand toward to the squad and, as usual, the stranglehold eased once he had made contact with the cool reassuringly familiar metal.

"Hey, butter fingers, ya want me to start more rice?" Kelly called out playfully as he passed the door on the way to the refrigerator for some condiments. When he didn't get even a grumbled curse as a response, he turned on his heel and stuck his head out into the bay. "Mike? You okay?" The concern in Chet's voice and his sudden exit created an ominous puddle of silence in the kitchen as the others paused to overhear the answer.

"It's nothing serious," Mike said once again, feeling caught in an endless loop of forced nonchalance. He drew in a deep but shaky breath, picked up the dust pan, and straightened without meeting Chet's eyes.

"If you ask me, that's one too many times you've said 'it's nothing serious' this shift," Chet responded pointedly, taking the dust pan out of Stoker's hand with the tiniest of jerks. "Not, of course, that you did."

Kelly re-entered the kitchen, and silently began to scoop the hot rice from the floor and into the plastic-lined garbage can he'd pushed toward the mess on his way to the refrigerator, his motions jerky and abrupt. He wiped up the floor, rinsed a last few bits of rice off the dust pan, dried it and then used the towel to finish drying the floor. The now-empty bowl went into the sink, the dirty towel into the basket for station laundry. Chet returned the dust pan to the closet, brushing past Stoker wordlessly as he did, and rejoined the others at the table. After picking up his fork as though he'd never even left his place, he speared a piece of tender chicken from his plate to go with the firm cube of squash still on the utensil.

"So, Johnny, you thinkin' about going sailing tomorrow?" Kelly asked amiably and took the bite he had prepared. _Not gonna let it get to me_, he thought, using his apparent appreciation of the tasty lemon-garlic combination on his fork as a ready excuse to hood his blue eyes.

"Uh, yeah, if the weather holds and Shelia doesn't back out on me," Gage replied, not sure what had just happened or why Mike was still standing in the doorway, face carefully blank.

=+++= / =++++

When supper was finished, Roy volunteered to help Mike with the dishes, forestalling the need for a hand of cards to determine who would have the honors. They worked together silently for several minutes, Roy biding his time until the others had dribbled out of the room and into other areas of the station. "How're your ribs doing?" he asked quietly. Mike, lost in thought, started at the question and his blue eyes flicked to the paramedic's face before returning to the pan he was scrubbing free of lemony chicken remains. He opened his mouth to respond when Roy added: "The truth, Mike, patient to paramedic."

"A little sore is all but nothing I can't handle," Stoker said reluctantly. "I felt that last rescue though," he added slowly.

"We all did, I think," Roy said with a grin. Four rookie defensive linemen on a college football team had been goaded into a sushi-eating contest by the upperclassmen. Unfortunately for them – and Station 51 – the raw fish in the sushi had precipitated a bout of intestinal distress severe enough for the defensive captain to call the paramedics. By the time the run was complete, nearly 1,200 pounds of moaning football player had been carried up from the game room in the basement of the gridiron dorm and loaded into waiting ambulances. "But, other than that, you're okay?"

"Yeah, I think so," he replied, electing not to disclose those strange bouts of breathlessness. _After all, he asked about my ribs not my throat_, he rationalized_. And I can handle it._

"Let me know if it gets worse, okay?"

"Sure thing, Roy."

=+++= / ==+++

At 0337 that morning, Stoker sat up in bed abruptly, jerked from a recurring dream by a harsh sound which, he realized belatedly, had come from his own throat. His rough breathing evened out as he sank back into his pillow, heart pounding. _I am not going to let this control me_, he thought to himself, staring at the ceiling in frustration. He resisted the urge to get up and wander through the station the way he did in his apartment when this happened and instead tried to force himself to sleep. _One times one is one. … Two times three is six. … Four times twelve is forty-eight. Five times one is five. … Five times eight is for – yawn – ty. …._

On the other side of the barrier, Chet listened intently until Mike's breathing quieted completely, signaling his friend's return to sleep, and then slipped from his bed, sock-clad feet silent on the cool floor, for a quick trip to the head. A few minutes later, still wiping his mouth of excess moisture, he climbed back into bed, turning onto his stomach and clutching his pillow. He drew in a deep breath, appreciating the minty freshness of it, held it for a three-count, and then expelled it fully, closing his eyes meditatively as he did. Just as relaxation overtook him, the tones sounded, the dispatcher's measured voice dragging him into the bay before he realized it.

"Station 51, Station 8, Ladder 127, Battalion 7. Residence fire. 12164 West Harrellson. One-two-one-six-four West Harrellson. Cross street Concordia. Time out 0358."

Chet glanced at Mike's profile as the big engine pulled out to follow the squad, discerning only the I-just-woke-up version of Stoker's game face before the bay's lights were left behind. By the time they arrived at the scene, Kelly had turned his own mind to the task at hand as well, putting aside his concerns. The steadily increasing smoke coming from the residential structure was enough to occupy his attention.

=+++= / ===++

Half-hidden in the weedy flowerbed along the cracked and uneven walk leading to the dilapidated two-story house, the child's red wagon had lost its wheels sometime in the distant past; its rusted-through bottom and missing handle only served to disguise it further in the pre-dawn night. Its resulting low profile contributed greatly to Captain Stanley tripping over it only minutes after they arrived on scene. It wasn't a bad fall, but Hank came up limping nonetheless, thanks to contact with another hidden treasure. "Stoker!" he shouted, causing Mike's head to whip around and start toward his captain immediately when he saw the other man take an unsteady lurching step.

"You okay, Cap?" he asked, wrapping one long arm around Hank's waist to help support him and lead him back to the engine. Hank nodded once but winced when his sore foot came down on the remnants of a broken terra cotta flower pot. _This place is a mess_, the now-grouchy fire captain thought.

"Feels like just a sprain," he said as Mike eased him down onto the running boards. Immediately, the engineer turned to retrieve the paramedics suiting up by the squad but Hank grabbed his arm before he could take a step. "Hang on a minute, don't bother Roy and John. Not yet. You heard 8s get delayed by a train; it's probably the Early Harbor Heavy Express. It'll take ten minutes to clear the tracks, _if_ there's not a hold down at the docks." Mike nodded, acknowledging the truth of his statements. "This place looks abandoned but you never know. So, we need to do a search _and_ get a jump on this fire. Grab your tank and go in with Lopez and Kelly. Gage and DeSoto can do a search on the second floor while the rest of you cover the first floor, and locate the fire. Take a couple of lines," he added. "I'll stay here with the engine and send 8s in as soon as they arrive."

"Right, Cap," Stoker said and pulled his gear from the compartment aft of the control panel.

=+++= / ====+

"Good job, man," Chet said, clapping Mike on the shoulder.

"Thanks," he replied with a raised-chin nod and took another sip of water, sweat still dripping from his soot-ringed face as he rested by the squad. He kept his eyes on the paramedics – and the old man they were working to revive – as Chet headed back to the hoses manned by Marco and the guys from 8s.

Stoker had discovered the man under the kitchen table moments before. He wasn't sure what – a final moan, a limb thumping against the floor, a flash of x-ray vision – had alerted him to the man's presence in the smoky darkness the three of them had been pushing through. But he'd ducked down, extending his long body further this time, and swept the handle of his axe forward, connecting with the man's foot almost immediately. Chet had helped Mike hoist the bulky man up and grabbed his feet, leaving the second line inside as the trio had backtracked, staying as low to the floor as they could. The engine from Station 8 arrived as they burst out into the night, trailing smoke.

"Marco, protect the egress. Chet, O2 and a blanket," Mike had rapped out once they'd cleared the steps, straightening and hefting the short man up enough to drag him across the grass solo, freeing Kelly to race toward the squad for the equipment. Cap's voice echoed through the various radios now on scene: advising the paramedics of a patient, directing the crew from 8s to complete the search of the first floor and join Marco in getting a knock on the fire, requesting an ambulance from dispatch. Stoker lowered the victim onto the yellow disposable blanket, pulled off his air mask and pressed it against the man's face while Kelly set up the oxygen. Roy appeared and shucked off his gear, intercepting the oxygen mask with a quick 'got it, thanks' to Chet as he took over patient care. Johnny's arrival prompted Stoker to step back as well and take the canteen Kelly offered.

The patient's deep coughs and weak voice alerted Mike to the man's return to consciousness. Gage looked up, caught Mike's eye, and nodded, his crooked smile breaking out readily. _This one's gonna make it_, Stoker thought, easing himself back onto his feet, ignoring the aches, and made his way over to Cap to report_. Break's over._

=+++= / =====

A long hot shower in his own apartment the next morning did wonders for Mike's aching muscles, the almost scalding water seemingly stripping away more than dirt and stiffness. Every sensation from the softness of the carpet to the hardness of the kitchen chair seemed new, as though he'd never experienced anything remotely like it in the past. He slid into his bed and discovered the cool cotton sheets were almost sensual against his bare chest. Lying there, he was aware of every muscle movement required to breathe, of the air moving into and out of his lungs rhythmically, of the breeze from the oscillating fan slowly dancing along the length of his sheet-covered body. _Of life. _Gradually, his heightened sense of awareness passed and he fell into a deep sleep that lasted until early afternoon.

And, for the first time in a week, no dreams of choking to death in a smoke-filled playroom pursued Stoker in the cave of Somnus.

=+++= / =+++=

_NOTE: So I wandered over to my local fire department and asked how likely it would be for the engineer to fill in for an injured fireman when time was of the essence and the injured man could take over his pump duties. He pointed out it would be possible but unlikely, explaining that usually the driver/engineer would be wearing a t-shirt with his bunker pants and boots instead of the usual complement of turnout gear and he would thus have to suit up and that would take time. _

_For a real life firefighter, suiting up to go into a fire would include a funky nomex hood, helmet, jacket, gloves, bunkers, boots and SCBA as well as a hefty utility belt and other strange-looking things to strap on, wiggle into, tug in place, or adjust. (My research consists of several YouTube videos, okay?) On the show, however, it appears Mike would only have to slip on his SCBA and gloves to be ready. Hopefully, this isn't too much of a stretch._

_And, I realize there is not a specific statute designating the shoulders of freeways in LA as emergency vehicle lanes or a specific traffic violation called impeding an emergency vehicle, but sometimes don't you think there should be?  
_


	3. Twenty Questions

**CHAPTER 2: TWENTY QUESTIONS**

=+++= / +====

"Daddy?"

"Yes, dear?" After glancing over at his dark-haired daughter, Henry continued to spot dry and put away the dishes from that morning's breakfast, waiting patiently for her to continue.

Patty McConnikee sat at the high counter that bounded the kitchen, not looking at her father, as she pushed the cold, limp remains of her broccoli around her plate with the fork. Henry had overcooked the broccoli and seared the chicken a bit too long when the ever-temperamental kitchen timer had suffered a terminal bout of mis-function during meal preparation. He took it as a sign of her distraction that she'd eaten as much of it as she had.

"Before the, when you were with, did you ever, how did you, if you, that is, when you had a bad run, what did, what did you tell Mom?" The origin of her hesitant, jumbled up question, what had sparked her curiosity this time, was no big mystery to her father.

Firefighter Specialist Michael D. Stoker, the quiet, capable, well-respected engineer from Station 51.

Patty had fallen for him, hard. Henry knew his daughter had stars in her eyes when it came to firemen in general. His brother Tommy's larger-than-life presence for so many years, the cousins near and far who had joined the fire service, the fireman crushes she'd had as a girl, even those few fleeting years he himself been a fireman – all combined to create those stars and keep them shining. It could be nothing more than girl-meets-fireman, but somehow Henry doubted it. His baby girl was asking way too many questions about _life_ with a fireman these days, about the stark reality behind the glamorous façade of shiny trucks and heroic deeds, for it to be mere infatuation.

Which meant the Stoker boy was somewhere between a father's dream come true and a father's second worst nightmare.

Despite the mental snapshot he carried of her running through a gauntlet of amused firemen toward him, laughing and eager to be swept up in her father's arms, he knew she was no longer a child. She deserved an honest answer.

"Back in the day," he said evenly, "I could be a real son of –, uhm, a real jerk after a bad run. Until your momma schooled me on proper marital communications, that is." He paused, embarrassed. "It took a good bit of time."

"Why's that?" she asked, ever curious.

"I was a slow learner, baby. A slow learner."

=+++= / ++===

_(Several years earlier)_

"Out." Her flat voice carried the weight of command and stopped him just inside their bedroom door.

"_Súile-glasa__?_" Henry's endearment for his green-eyed wife failed to melt her icy expression.

"Out," she repeated, steeling herself against the honest bewilderment in his blue eyes. "You're not welcome here." Morgan stood next to the distressed antique white wood dresser on the far wall, subtly supporting herself on the corner of the simple highboy but not obviously leaning against it. She wanted to appear strong. She had to be strong.

"In my own house?" he asked, incredulous.

"In _my_ bed," she clarified without backing down. "Not if you're going to keep secrets from me."

"Morgan, what are you talking about? I'm not keeping secrets from you." _The anniversary present hiding in my sock drawer doesn't count as a secret, right?_

"If you're not going to tell me what's going on with you these days, why you are acting this way, then I don't know how this marriage is going to survive." _You think I'm upset over what's in your sock drawer, buddy? You had better wise up and soon, fella._

"Acting what way? I'm not acting any different – ."

"What did you do at work yesterday?" she interrupted and watched tension ripple through his body: eyes, jaw, neck, shoulders, arms, gut, legs. Even his bare toes in the navy blue carpet seemed to tense.

"Rescue cats from trees, give tours to schoolchildren, polish the engine, hang hose, fight fires," he replied as if by rote. "Typical day."

"That's it?" Morgan stepped forward, reaching for the newspaper atop the red and white afghan at the foot of the bed, willing her legs to support her and her stomach not to betray her unease. _What if this isn't what's made him close up?_

"Pretty much." Henry eyed the newspaper she held in one hand. _No way. _

"Sure there was nothing else? Nothing that stands out?" There was acid in her voice now, and hurt.

"Nothing in particular." _No way could she have found out – ._

"Then who the hell is this about?" she asked, hurling the early edition of the paper at his feet. It flipped open to reveal a picture of a burning building, with a fire department aerial stretched to the roof, under a headline: _Blaze claims three; arson suspected._ Even if he hadn't recognized the building instantly, Henry would have been able to tell his company had been there the same way Morgan had: the big 27 emblazoned on the rig.

"Oh, that." _– about that._

"Yeah, _that_." The sarcasm she managed to pour into those few words caused him to wince. "Start talking, Henry Malone McConnikee, unless you're prepared to move into Brawley's doghouse tonight." _Please, love, talk to me. Reassure me that we're going to make it._

=+++= / +++==

"Mom actually threatened you with the doghouse?" Patty asked, green eyes amused.

"Yup, those were her exact words." Henry chuckled, deftly removing her plate so she couldn't torture her broccoli further. "She probably would have carried out that threat too, if I hadn't started talking," he added over his shoulder as he scraped the remains of her lunch into the garbage can.

"So, what _did_ you tell her?" There was a quiet intensity behind her words. Patty was definitely on the hunt for information. He was willing to provide it, although it was bittersweet to relive the early days of his marriage when Morgan was alive and healthy, when he was brave and confident.

"About that fire, or generally?" He bought himself a little extra time to think, although he didn't intend to actually evade her question. _She's using her head not just her heart when it comes to Stoker. That's a good thing_, he reminded himself.

"I, uh – both." She smiled over at her father who rolled his eyes.

"That was a silly question, wasn't it?" he asked good-naturedly, rinsing the plate he'd finished washing and settling it in the drying rack. The skillet that had over-seared the chicken was still soaking but the rest of the kitchen was neat and tidy again. He untied the plain white apron he wore when cooking and draped it over the edge of the empty sink to dry.

"Well, I wasn't gonna say anything, Daddy, but now that you mention it, yup, that was a silly question," she teased. "Don't I always want to know more?"

"Yeah, baby, you do. C'mon outside with me and I'll try to answer your questions," he replied while a question of his own rambled through his mind: _Ah, Stoker, what are you not telling my Patty Mack?_

=+++= / =+++=


	4. The Quiet Game

**CHAPTER 3: THE QUIET GAME**

=+++= / +====

What started out as a routine call, just after his regular shift had ended, wound up having devastating consequences when a 53-year-old suffered a cerebral aneurysm while approaching the scene he was working. The pickup truck careened out of control as the sudden, intense, and fatal pain assaulted the driver's skull. The autopsy confirmed the driver had been beyond saving – absent the immediate appearance of a neurosurgeon and his team – before the vehicle clipped Derek 'Watty' Watson as he worked the pumps on Engine 51 and smacked into the edge of the front bumper.

The impact had thrown the C-shift engineer into the side of the engine then dropped him heavily to the pavement, rag-doll limp. At Hank's shout, both A-shift paramedics had raced to the fallen man, working rapidly to save Derek. The drop in water pressure had prompted Marco and Chet to retreat from the briskly-burning trash fire next to a building when Cap was unable to persuade the pump to do more than just limp along. The second engine and the ambulance had arrived simultaneously, a relief to everyone from 51s.

Despite the best efforts of the paramedics and the doctors at Rampart, Watty had lapsed into a coma. For the first two years after the accident, his parents had been almost daily visitors. Then Watty's father had suffered a heart attack. Although he'd recovered for the most part, he required more care than his wife alone could give. They lived with Derek's sister and her family now, about two hours away. There had been talk of moving Derek to a facility closer to the family but the insurance company had nixed the idea.

By default, Mike Stoker had become the most frequent visitor the young fireman had, a self-imposed obligation which he took seriously and which had become as much a part of his normal routine as showing up for work. The nurses in the long-term care unit Derek had been transferred to knew they could expect the tall polite fireman to visit once every ten days or so and stay by the comatose patient's bedside for about two hours each time.

When Stoker came to visit, he would bring a small thermos of coffee, the latest technical updates and departmental memos relevant to engineers, and a novel. He'd pour two cups of coffee, putting them on the adjustable table he rolled over to the bed. Most of the time, Mike began with a few stories about runs they'd been on recently, then moved on to the technical bulletins. Those new to the facility were always a bit surprised at how animated Stoker could become when explaining the newest technical innovations in the fire service to his unresponsive buddy, using his hands to demonstrate and drawing on the institutional paper towels to illustrate when necessary.

"Remember, if you have any questions, just jump right in and ask," Mike would say over and over again. "You'll need to know all this stuff when you get better. Don't worry though; I'll help you study for the recert." The frustrating silence emanating from the bed was balanced by the reassuring breath sounds and steady heart beats.

By then, the first cup of coffee would be empty and Mike would pour himself a second cup, topping off the half-cup he'd poured for Derek in order to warm it.

When the latest technical information had been imparted, Stoker would open the novel and begin reading aloud where they had left off at his last visit. He interspersed classics – _Robinson Crusoe, Moby-Dick, The Count of Monte Cristo, Dracula, Don Quixote, Treasure Island, _and _The Call of the Wild_ – with mysteries like _The Big Sleep, The Postman Always Rings Twice, One Lonely Night _and_ The Maltese Falcon_ and westerns like _The Way West, The Sackett Brand, The Quick and the Dead_, _Riders of the Purple Sage, _and _Shane_. One of the nurses liked to spend part of her break sitting outside the room, just listening to him read, when she could.

When he'd reached a good stopping place in the novel, Mike would pull out the departmental memos and read them to Watty, joking that they were boring enough for insomniacs to use as bedtime stories. His final encouragement to the comatose engineer involved scooting the Styrofoam cup of coffee minimally closer on the table and telling Derek to drink up sooner rather than later, quipping, "Not even my coffee is all that good cold!"

By mutual agreement, the nursing staff waited until the coffee held no warmth at all before pouring it down the drain in the bathroom sink and returning the rolling table to its usual place against the wall. Stranger things had happened than someone waking from a coma due to the smell of good coffee.

=+++= / ++===

(25 August)

The run was exactly three days, two shifts, and one lifetime ago.

It had driven Mike straight from the fire station, still in uniform and empty-handed, to Derek's bedside. Once there, Stoker wasn't sure what he expected to happen. After perhaps twenty minutes, one of the older nurses noticed he was in the room but not engaged in his usual routine. She quietly brought in two steaming cups of coffee, placing them on the table which she then deftly maneuvered into place beside the unnaturally still firefighter seated by the bed. "Do you need anything?" she asked softly, certain the nice young man was in a great deal of pain.

"Just for Derek to wake up," Stoker said bitterly, voice rough with disuse, "and tell me how the _hell_ to deal with this _crap_."

She was surprised by the dual layers of harshness in his tone. "Do you want to talk about it? To me, I mean?"

"No, ma'am, thank you," he said, adding automatically, "I'm sorry for my language." _A fire won't mind your language, son, but a lady will_, his father had once told him.

"Well, you just talk to Mr. Watson here, then. He's a good listener," she said kindly, prepared to leave him to work out things with the comatose firefighter, or himself. Sometimes that was best.

"He's not going to get better, is he?" Mike asked before she could make her exit, his heart sinking further when she hesitated. He knew the hesitation wasn't due to patient privacy; Watty's parents had been kind enough to waive that for all of the firefighters who visited their son. 'They are his family, too,' his mom had said firmly when the facility had questioned her decision.

"There's always a chance but the longer he stays in a coma, the less likely it is he'll wake up," Nurse Carson admitted. "He's doing well, considering. And," she added, hoping to ease his pain, "your visits are good for him."

"It's the least I can do."

"Oh?"

"He agreed to stay past the end of his shift because I was going to be late that morning. He was injured on the first run after shift change." Mike looked at his hands. "The run I should have been on."

"Are you here just because you feel guilty, then?" She deliberately pricked him, hoping he would give up on blaming himself. _If that's the case, he's been carrying this guilt way too long. Whatever's __just__ dropped on his shoulders looks like it'll take all his strength._

"No!" he exclaimed. "No," he said again, more softly. "Watty was – _is_ my friend." It was hard, so hard, to think of Derek in the present tense when he was lying in a bed motionless and had been for more than a thousand days. "He's – ." Stoker's voice failed but his thoughts continued then crumbled like a fire-denuded hillside after torrential rains. _He's not dead! Derek's not dead, but those kids, those kids – ._

The nurse was prepared to help him deal with a lingering case of 'shoulda been me' and her lips started to form the all-too-familiar words. Survivor's guilt was something the nursing staff here was trained to recognize and combat; patients with a real shot at recovery did better once their loved ones moved past the negative emotions. Sometimes easing the minds of the 'other patients' – especially for the medically hopeless cases – was all the staff could do.

Something – the apparent contraction in his throat, the odd way his lips trembled, something – prompted her to change tactics. Instead of launching into her spiel, she laid a tender hand on Mike's shoulder instead, simply letting him know she was there but staying silent.

"All of them were gone. We couldn't save them. _I_ couldn't save them," Stoker whispered finally, the dam he'd fashioned cracking under the stubborn silence of Firefighter Specialist Derek Watson and the quiet pressure of Nurse Adelaide Carson's honest concern.

"Them?" the nurse quietly asked him, the lost look on his face heartbreaking. _Please let me soothe the new wound, at least. _

"The kids, six of 'em," he replied brokenly. "They were trapped in a fire and I, we, didn't – , we didn't save them."

She remembered reading about a fire in the paper just a few days ago. Six kids had died, the police had found evidence of drug trafficking in the burnt out ruins, and the mother-cum-babysitter had been arrested on multiple charges. It was the kind of story that stuck in one's memory, even in a tragedy-drenched city like this. And one of her cousins worked as a medic part-time at the county jail; he often classified his female clientele as 'nuts or sluts.' According to Artie, the woman whose criminal negligence had precipitated the children's deaths had definitely qualified as a nut, even before the suicide attempt he'd interrupted. Surely there couldn't be two such events. "I – what happened?"

"We weren't fast enough." Whatever else might have contributed to it, the simple fact was that time had run out. For Billy … Winston … Davy … Maria … little Eliza … Michael.

"Is that, uh, what do you think Derek would tell you?" Adelaide asked.

"Nothing I could repeat to a lady," he said with a mirthless smile then sighed deeply, eyes closed, jaw clenched. "And then, then he'd pick apart everything, absolutely everything related to the run. Did you have your shoes on? Did you drive like a little old lady? Did you have problems with forcing the door? Did you balk at going into the house? Did you get mesmerized by the smoke and the flames? Did you eat your Wheaties that morning?" His voice trailed off to a mumble as his head sunk lower.

"What was that?" She had a feeling it was important.

"'Were they _dead_ before you even got the call?'" he repeated softly but distinctly. "And then he'd repeat what I can't repeat to a lady."

"I can see why you keep visiting Derek. He's obviously been a good friend to you in the past." She hesitated, then forged ahead when he remained silent."So, are you going to take his advice?"

"Huh?" Stoker looked up at her for the first time in several minutes. Her brown eyes were filled with a compassion that seemed to go beyond that of her chosen profession.

"What you can't repeat to a lady," she prompted, one corner of her mouth turned up slightly.

Mike appreciated her gentle humor and the way it allowed him to regain his mental footing. "Intellectually, I know he's right. I've gone over it again and again in my mind. We've debriefed the technical aspects of the incident and, given the information we had, we did the right things. It was just too late." When Stoker chose to talk about it clinically – as he had for the past few days at the station and in the backroom at O'Malley's with Chet – he found his words came more easily, the raw emotion stripped out and tucked away to fester in another place.

"In other words, you're not to blame for the outcome – none of you are."

"Correct." His acknowledgement was tight, crisp and utterly meaningless, she realized. _He knew what Derek would say about this run, knew it before he came._

"But you are still blaming yourself, aren't you, for … for something?" His eyes darted away from hers, toward the still form in the bed. He was uncomfortable with her insight, but unable to deny it. "Since you already know what Derek would say about the fire, are you going to talk to him about what you _are_ blaming yourself for?"

Mike stared at his hands, feeling his throat start to close up _again_, and simply shook his head, before gripping the rail of Derek's bed tightly until he could take another breath. Adelaide stayed with him while his respirations stabilized, arm draped across his shoulders encouragingly. Her sad sigh trailed him when he slipped from the room, untouched coffee still steaming on the table, a few minutes later.

"Derek, you need to wake up," she told the comatose firefighter sternly. "I'll do what I can, but your friend Mike needs some help."

=+++= / =+++=


	5. From Coffee to Canasta

**CHAPTER 4: FROM COFFEE TO CANASTA**

=+++= / +====

(5 September)

"Mornin', Mike."

The familiar yet unexpected voice caused Stoker to glance toward the clock on the wall in the kitchen before turning to the couch. _Nope, I'm not late today. He's just early. Wonder – ._ "Morning. What's got you here so early?"

"Oh, it was just a real treat not to clean the latrines so I thought I'd see if I could do it two shifts in a row." Chet yawned hugely then went back to rubbing Henry's ears. "Don't know how you get in at this time every shift, though," he added and took another drink from his cup.

"Habit." Stoker poured himself a cup of coffee, hoping there wasn't too much left in the pot so he could brew it the way he liked. His tentative sip caused him to look over at a grinning Kelly in surprise.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I slipped up and made a decent pot of coffee for a change. Don't expect it to happen again." _Took me three pots to get it the way he likes it._

"Well, be sure to let me know if you do it again," Mike replied. "This is a good cuppa joe." He leaned against the counter and took another, longer drink, relaxing as the day started off right. There was plenty of time for him to change and take care of the flags this morning – and enjoy a cup of coffee he didn't have to make.

"Hey, Stokesy, that your coffee I smell?" The B-shift captain stepped into the kitchen and headed for the stove eagerly, followed by two of the other guys.

"Nope," Stoker said blandly and took another sip. "It's good stuff though. Kelly made it," he added and laughed out loud when all three men seemed to wilt at the news.

=+++= / ++===

"And I say I can bench press more than you, Marco," Chet declared midmorning, following the other man back into the bay with his share of the now-dry hose they were getting ready to put back on the engine. "I know I've got Gage beat by a mile." He glanced over at his pigeon, waiting expectantly for the paramedic's response.

Roy reached across the hood of the squad as Johnny whipped around to face his tormentor. "Now just a doggone minute, Kelly. I can bench press just as much as you can." Johnny waggled a finger at Chet, the polishing cloth he was about to give his partner dancing wildly in his hand. "And you know it!"

Blue eyes innocent and wide, Chet waited until Johnny had turned back to his work before chiding him: "Sure, Johnny, sure." The paramedic spun around again, the cloth slipping through Roy's outstretched fingers a second time.

"Chet," Johnny began heatedly then changed tactics, narrowing his eyes. "What makes you so sure you can lift more than Marco?"

"He's been dreaming again," Marco put in, handing the end of the first hose up to Mike on top of the engine.

"Nah, man, I've been working out," the curly-haired lineman responded, connecting and handing the hose to Marco who continued to feed it to Mike who carefully positioned it in the hose bed. "I'm really getting into great shape these days."

"Trying to catch up with the rest of us, eh?" Johnny remarked snidely, not hearing Roy's cough for attention.

"Leaving you behind in a cloud of dust, Johnny, my boy, is more like it."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Why don't you two just drop it?" Roy said, coming around the front of the squad and grabbing the polishing rag out of Johnny's hand. He replaced the rag with a bottle of glass cleaner so his partner could do the windows on his side of the vehicle. "It doesn't really make much difference anyway, which of you takes the booby prize for bench pressing on this shift."

"Sure about that, pally?" Gage paused mid-squirt, the blue liquid dribbling down his hand instead of shooting onto the surface of the side mirror.

"About what?" Roy returned to his side of the squad, working a gleam into the hood with powerful strokes. "I can bench press more than either of you."

"Gross weight or percentage of body weight?" Stoker quietly asked Lopez who smiled in response, dark eyes twinkling. DeSoto was strong and muscular but battled his weight more than the rest of them.

"Do my ears deceive me or did I just hear a challenge?" Hank said from the doorway to his office, eliciting a groan from his men. Hank just smiled and urged them to finish their chores quickly so they could put the debate to rest.

=+++= / +++==

"Johnny, how much do you weigh?" Marco asked, chalk in hand. He was making a grid on the blackboard with names, weights, and soon-to-be-determined max bench press. Two runs for the squad, one inspection by the engine crew and lunch had delayed the challenge.

"Enough."

"I need – hey – a number." Stoker took the piece of chalk from Lopez, added a column and labeled it "% BWt" before handing the chalk back with a tiny smirk.

"I don't have one. It's not like I weigh myself regularly."

"Brackett won't be happy to hear that," Roy put in. The doctor from Rampart worried about the fitness of all his paramedics, but especially the skinny, spleen-less, injury-prone ones.

"Yeah, well, hopefully he won't hear it." _I'm no longer a skinny boot who can't miss a meal without losing five pounds. Geez, Roy!_

"Who won't hear what, John?" Cap asked as he came into the day room with the portable scales.

"Nothing, sir."

"Uh-huh," he replied, giving Gage a look before inspecting Marco's work. "Hey, pal, you've left off a name there."

"Cap?" Marco looked over the names he'd printed neatly: Stoker, Lopez, Gage, Kelly, DeSoto.

"Yep, that's the one you left off."

"Oh, right," the lineman said and hastily added Stanley's name. _Uh-oh, Cap's doing this too?_

"All right, gentlemen, up on the scales, one at a time," Cap ordered, waving a now-reluctant Kelly forward. Hank announced each man's weight and Marco wrote it up the board.

=+++= / ++++=

Although having his men put up or shut up about their prowess in the weight room was an amusing way to spend a slow shift as well as a good team-building exercise, Hank Stanley kept his responsibilities as a fire captain firmly in mind. He led all of them through brief warm-ups and stretches to minimize the risk of injuries, working out an acceptable order in his head to find each man's one rep max on the bench press.

"Unless you want to start somewhere else, initial weight on the bar will be your body weight," Cap said. "Roy, although I understand you're not the one who started this," Kelly squirmed under Stanley's hazel-eyed gaze, "I _heard_ your challenge so you get to go first. John, you'll be next up, followed by Marco, Chet, me and Mike." Hank glanced at his engineer and workout partner. "Stoker? You feel up to spotting these guys?"

"Sure, Cap." Mike stood behind the bar and wiped his hands on his pants, as Roy positioned himself on the weight bench and the linemen began loading the bar.

=+++= / +++++

"On three, Cap?" Mike asked as he had twice before. Although he wasn't a particularly vain man, the older man couldn't hide the mischievous gleam in his eyes as he nodded. He'd noticed Marco's look at the chalk board and Chet's raised eyebrows when Hank had opted for extra weight on his initial lift. "One, two, _three!_" Mike said and handed the bar off smoothly, following the controlled descent carefully but keeping his hands out of the way. "C'mon, old man, you got this," he urged when Cap's ascent slowed and was rewarded with a quick surge upward. He grinned as he grasped the bar at its apex and racked it with a satisfying clang as the other men clapped.

"Old man?" Stanley gasped out as he sat up. _Old man, indeed._

"It worked, didn't it?" the still grinning engineer retorted.

Before Hank could respond, Sam Lanier did and the four men scurried to do his bidding, one rep maxes, bench presses and challenges forgotten.

"Engine 51. Assist Squad 51. 21328 North Avalon Boulevard. Two-one-three-two-eight North Avalon, cross street 213th. Time out 1447."

=+++= / =++++

Stoker felt the firm padded surface against his back and sucked in another breath. He carefully positioned his hands, one at a time, a little more than shoulder-width apart and met Kelly's worried eyes. "On three, Mike?" Kelly asked in a tight voice and Stoker nodded. "One, two, _three!_"

Mike pushed against the floor, exhaling as he lifted himself and the mattresses which had fallen over on him and Chet in the warehouse. The mattresses had been goaded into toppling over like gigantic fluffy dominos by a strung-out teenager named James when he'd cannon-balled into the collection of upright mattresses from above in a mistaken belief that it was a pool of water. He slid between two mattresses, eventually landing on the floor; his struggles to free himself had started the beds in motion, catching Chet and Mike unawares as they approached and knocking them to the floor.

Now, as the load rose atop Stoker's strong back, Marco reached in, grabbed Chet's shoulders and pulled, then scrambled to shove an end table under the edge when it was high enough. Mike lowered himself back to the floor, making sure the end table could take the weight, and began to belly-crawl out, helmet no longer being pressed down by the ticking. Two pairs of strong hands grasped his upper arms when they appeared and slid him out the rest of the way.

"Got 'em," Marco called to Johnny and Hank who were hefting mattresses out of the way to relieve the weight on their crewmates a few feet further down the pile. Johnny slithered over the top of the still unstable pile and headed for Kelly and Stoker without hesitation.

"Roy?" Hank asked before following the light-footed Gage to check on his men.

"I'm good," the relieved paramedic responded and continued to tend the civilian they'd come to the large furniture warehouse to assist.

The manager of the establishment had called them. He had initially discovered his son wandering through Lighting, apparently hallucinating and having conversations with the various fixtures. James had become agitated after a green-shaded desk lamp had refused to respond to his impassioned questions about quantum tunneling and had taken off, running through the store and hiding. After a few failed attempts to corral the energized boy, the paramedics had called for reinforcements.

He had been relatively easy for the six firemen to find – the random shouts about light bulbs had helped – but not so easy to contain, especially when he began climbing the racks. Johnny had followed James along the high road and clambered down after the teenager had jumped, able to assist Roy in restraining him before Marco's shout alerted them to their temporarily buried crewmates.

=+++= / ==+++

"Well, I'm still going to drive." Hank wiped the side of his face on the way to rubbing the back of his neck. He had his turnout coat buttoned tightly up to the neck, despite the light sheen of sweat that had appeared on his skin while he and Marco helped clean up the scene.

"I'm fine, Cap," Stoker insisted again. _They were mattresses, guys, not walls or ceilings._ Although he and Chet had been thoroughly checked out by Mother Hen Gage and pronounced injury free, neither had been allowed to help restore order to the wayward mattresses after the paramedics transported their juvenile patient.

"Humor the old man, Michael." The engineer's face pinked slightly. "Besides," Hank added with a grin, "you might find you _like_ riding in the captain's seat." Mike snorted but obediently climbed into the right-hand seat of the engine. _Captain Michael D. Stoker, indeed._

=+++= / ===++

Three hours later, Mike turned off the big diesel engine and let out a small sigh of relief. "It's good to be home," Captain Stanley commented, appreciating the station's familiar embrace more than usual. Back-to-back runs weren't unheard of, but it was unusual to be within sight of the station and be toned out twice in a row.

"Amen to that," Chet piped up from the back seat as the bay doors rumbled shut. Marco grunted in agreement and undid his coat slowly with chilled fingers.

"Marco, get in the shower and warm up," Cap said, turning in his seat to face the lineman who'd gotten the worst of the last run, an extrication from a partially submerged automobile on its side in a large public fountain. For almost twenty minutes, while the rest of the crew unwrapped the vehicle from the victim, he had held the Hispanic grandmother's head and neck immobile. The water he crouched in while reassuring the woman was decidedly chilly thanks to several pounds of crushed ice from the lemonade cart pushed into the fountain by the crash.

"_Gracias_," Lopez said and slid from the fire engine. Stoker swung down from Big Red's cab at the same time, stripped off his damp turnout coat, and draped it over the driver's side door, spreading it so it could dry a little, then headed for the kitchen. _Chet's leftover chili should be just the thing to warm everyone else up._

=+++= / ====+

(6 September)

Sweat dribbled into his eyes again, causing him to momentarily lose track of the spinning blade. It slipped from his slick fingers to the floor, the axe head barely missing his booted foot. The handle of the unsheathed fire axe thumped against his bare shins then fell to the tan carpet with a soft _thwump_. Stoker resisted the urge to snatch it from the floor immediately, instead reaching for a towel. The nick from an earlier drop stung as he dragged the cloth over his skin but he ignored it and continued to wipe the perspiration from his face, arms, and chest. When his anger with the axe had dissipated, he picked it up and examined it for damage.

Finding none, Mike began to twirl the axe again, slowly, switching it from hand to hand and grip to grip in a prescribed sequence. When the sequence was finished, he held the axe in front of him formally, stance rigid. Fifteen long seconds later, he relaxed, letting the handle slide through the loose circle of his fingers until the axe head rested against his thumb and index finger. After putting the leather guard over the blade, he stood it in the corner behind his front door and glanced at the clock.

_Still too flaming soon to sleep._

Although Mike had a plausible excuse for declining Chet's invitation to go bowling tonight – he was scheduled to report to 8s in the morning and, for about six or eight hours, take the place of a lineman who'd been subpoenaed in a neighbor dispute – time was moving much too slowly this evening and he half-wished he'd gone with Chet. A broken shoelace had derailed his plan to burn off his agitation with a long, punishing run which was how he'd handled last Thursday's too long hours; his axe drills had been an imperfect substitute.

What he wanted, he realized, was Patty McConnikee.

For the past few weeks, his girlfriend's gentle persistence and willingness to spend a few quiet hours with him at his apartment without demanding more had suited him. The rich cadence of her voice as she talked about her latest research project soothed him as he cooked for them, usually making a special dish he knew she would enjoy. As they ate and talked, he would cling to the semblance of normality for as long as he could, usually teasing her about something she'd said in her excited recitation of what she'd done that day. When he felt his composure slipping through his fingers, Mike would drop a gentle hint about being tired only to wallow in his loneliness once Patty had gone.

_Ring. Ring._

"Stoker," he said neutrally into the phone. _I just may change my mind if it's Chet again._

"Specialist? Are you free tonight?" Patty's voice took him by surprise. He was used to the way she jumped straight into the conversation, as though she'd just walked back into the room, but it was Thursday. Thursday was usually family night. "Mike, you there?"

"Yeah, sorry. I don't have any particular plans, no." He'd felt the tension rising in his chest and shoulders for a few hours now, despite his efforts to wear himself out which suggested the only things on his agenda for the evening were a few – if he was lucky – rounds of bad dreams. "Did you want to come over or something?" A faint hope she would arrive on his doorstep in a due course colored his voice.

"Actually, I was wondering if _you_ could join _me_. You play canasta, right?"

"Uh, yeah." _Canasta, canasta. Seven of a kind, red threes, black threes, jokers and deuces wild, canasta._

"My usual partner is feeling under the weather tonight and I was hoping you could sub?" Her inflection turned her explanation into a question. "Please?"

"I – sure. But, I'm not all that good."

"That's okay, it's not a really competitive league."

"Well, just so you know. I wouldn't want to, uh, disappoint you."

She laughed, a delightful sound to his melancholy mind. "Specialist, I don't think that's possible. Anyway, I'll pick you up in about an hour, okay?"

"Sure thing, hon. I'll be ready." _An hour, Stoker, you've got an hour._

=+++= / =====

"So, where are we going?" he asked after settling into her car. Unless the seat was all the way back, his long legs had nowhere to go.

"Hilda's Other Place."

"Excuse me?"

"Hilda's Other Place. It's a pub of sorts. Dad's cousin Hilda owns it."

A vague memory stirred. "Isn't that at the airport?"

"That's Hilda's other place." There was a smile in her voice as if she were laughing at an inside joke.

"Weird place to have a canasta tourney. The parking at the airport must be awful."

"Hilda's _Place_ is at the airport but we're going to Hilda's _Other Place_. It's on West 139th."

"Hilda's Place and Hilda's Other Place."

"Yup."

"Ah. Is this, by chance, A McConnikee Clan Event?" He capitalized the words in his mind, adding a stylized flourish underneath with his mental pen. _Of course, it's a Clan Event, Stoker – it's Thursday, isn't it?_

"Uh, yes?" She darted a quick look at him, as they passed under a series of street lamps. "You don't mind, do you?"

=+++= / + +====

"Hey, Stoker, can I ask ya something?"

_Nothing to hide, everything to gain_, he reminded himself as he addressed his latest questioner. "Uh, sure, Chief." Mike looked up briefly but devoted most of his attention to shuffling the cards. He had been to only a few of these gatherings but he had quickly come to realize he was being _scrutinized_ by various members of Patty's family, just as Henry had promised. The questions were not annoying but they were often random, usually prefaced with a quickly spoken phrase that invariably came out as one long word _kenahashyasumtin_, and always asked when Patty had stepped away just for a minute. He wasn't entirely sure she knew it was even happening.

This time Patty and her aunt Alice had gone into the kitchen to retrieve snacks for the members of the canasta club gathered at Hilda's Other Place, leaving the two men alone at the green felt-covered card table. The chatter from other tables flowed around them meaninglessly as Tom McConnikee eased back in his chair for a moment, eyeing the other man with a half-frown. Stoker fanned the double-deck of cards together easily, before splitting the deck and working one half then the other adroitly. When he rejoined the halves, he looked up again, clearly waiting for his chief's question.

"Mike, my name's Tom."

"Uh, yes, sir."

"Tom."

"Tom?"

"Or Tommy, if you prefer. Either works here." Although he gestured to the establishment run by one of the many McConnikee relatives, Mike knew the chief, _no, Tom _meant to include most anywhere other than fire department operations or functions.

"I'll … keep that in mind. You had a question?"

"Yeah," Tom said, nodding, and sat up straighter in his chair. "I was wonderin' what you told Patty about that fire, the one on Washburne." _She's pretty green when it comes to hearing about that kind of incident. How'd she handle it?_

_Yup, another random one. _Stoker hesitated briefly in his shuffling then continued at the previous tempo, wondering if it was too soon to begin dealing the cards out. "Nothing."

"Nothing?" _You guys pulled six dead kids out of a fire and you didn't even mention it to her?_

"It hasn't come up, si – Tom. Why should it?" _Boy, 'Tom' feels awkward but 'Tommy' would be worse._

"Well, I must say I'm surprised." _Why should it?! Hello, Stoker! Tragic fire, six dead kids, emotionally and mentally tough for anyone. Hello? Hello? Geez. Why am I not surprised at this? It is so much easier to talk to Henry; he knows what I mean._

"Sir?"

Tom leaned forward a bit, lowering his voice but letting the Irish brogue he cultivated thicken markedly. "M'brother Henry tells me ye might be thinkin' o' takin' m'niece to wife. If that's the honest truth, then ye better be square wit' her now."

"What do you mean?" Mike was never quite sure what to make of Tom's on-again, off-again brogue. It was one of those McConnikee quirks which just didn't make sense to Stoker.

"Ye need to be up front wit' her."

"About what, exactly?"

Tommy waved his hand, annoyed at Stoker's obtuseness, and dropped the accent like a greasy rag, his diction becoming the precise speech the engineer was used to hearing on the fireground. "Mike, the McConnikees have a long, proud tradition of public service, especially firefighting. As a family, we're not new to the game. We've learned a few things; we've tried to pass them along. One of them boils down to this: Even if you don't share details with her, a woman needs to know your mood is related to the job, not her, especially when the job is firefighting. Trust me on this, _I know_." He paused for emphasis. "You _need_ to be up front with Patty when something on the job has you torqued up."

"There's nothing to be 'up front' about – I'm fine." Despite the firm even tone of his declaration, Stoker didn't quite meet his chief's eyes.

"That so?" The challenge in Tommy's voice was unmistakable and Stoker wasn't sure whether he was talking to his girlfriend's uncle or his battalion chief. And he wasn't entirely sure which would be preferable at this point. Tommy's hard blue eyes flicked over Mike's shoulder at the sound of laughter from one of the nearer tables, then returned to the engineer's face as he put his hands flat on the surface of the table, deliberately leaning forward into the other man's personal space. "Well, then, let me share a wee bit o' Irish wisdom wit' ye." The brogue had returned, darker. "Ye ken sen' off yer girlfrien' early when yer feelin' blues but ye ken no' do tha' wit' yer _wife_. No, sirree. Mos' 'specially if the _wife_ is of the Clan McConnikee."

Before Mike could reply or fully process his words, Tommy pushed himself up and stepped away from the table. Smiling broadly, eyes warm and gentle, he greeted his wife in a lighter, playful version of his accent. "Ah, there's m'beaut'ful bride, returned t' me at last! I missed ye, love."

"You silly Irishman! I wasn't gone that long," Alice scolded, blushing nonetheless.

"A single moment without ye is too long," he proclaimed grandly and bestowed a kiss on her hand.

"Aren't they so cute?" Patty said softly in Mike's ear, draping her arms around his shoulders. "To look at them now, you wouldn't think they'd been on the brink of divorce for years, would you?" Despite the accented hyperbole of his romantic words, there was an underlying sincerity in the big firefighter's behavior toward his petite wife as he tenderly handed her into her chair, hands lingering on her shoulders before he resumed his seat across the table from her.

"No, no, you wouldn't," Mike replied somewhat absently. _How did McConnikee know Patty's been leaving my place earlier than she used to?_

"Patty Mack, if you two have your signals worked out for the next hand now," Tom McConnikee grinned conspiratorially at his wife as he spoke, "why don't you deal the cards?"

"We haven't needed signals," Patty replied pertly and picked up the deck, "to beat you thus far. Why start now?"

"Now, honey, we're just getting warmed up," Alice explained, causing her husband to laugh. Even though the easy-going avuncular persona was back, Stoker was cautious as he collected his cards, turning over in his mind the advice Tom had passed along: _You need to be up front with Patty_.

=+++= / + ++===

"Specialist?" Patty had turned into the apartment complex, pulled into a parking spot and shut off the engine a few minutes ago but Mike hadn't moved yet. In fact, she'd bet he didn't even know they were home.

"Hmmm?" he replied, lost in thought until she touched his shoulder lightly. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Were you planning on staying in the car all night?" She leaned close to him, teasingly. "I mean, I'm game if you are but the backseat is kinda cramped." She laughed and dropped a kiss on his cheek when comprehension dawned. "What's got you so distracted tonight?" Patty rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, trying to ease the tension she felt in his muscles. She'd noticed it earlier but hadn't been in a position to do anything about it.

"It's nothing serious." After a moment of uncomfortable silence, he added, "Sorry about losing the game." Their initial lead had disappeared in the latter half of the game and they'd come up just short when Alice picked up the pile off Mike's discard after he overlooked a stopper in his hand. She'd been able to complete four canastas – two of them red – with the cards and neatly put the game out of reach for Mike and Patty.

"At least we made a contest of it," Patty replied with a smile. "Most of the time those two run away with it."

"That's good to know," Mike replied. _Tell her, Stoker, tell her._

"So, do you have any plans for the next few hours? I'm not due at work until noon." Patty let her eyes travel over his oddly tired face, leaning toward him again in invitation. _I can work out those kinks in his shoulders if he'll let me._

"Actually, I need to get some sleep," he said reluctantly. His words stopped her mouth just a few inches from his; if she'd been able to exhale, he would have tasted her breath. "I'm sorry, hon. I'm working tomorrow." His eyes darted over her shoulder guiltily.

"It's okay," Patty said slowly, reviewing the department shift schedule in her head as she sat back into the driver's seat. "I understand you've got to work." She frowned. "I thought you were scheduled to be off though…."

"I'm … picking up some OT to cover part of a shift for a guy at 8s."

"Oh, okay." She pushed aside her disappointment and pulled on a cheerful smile. "Well, then, specialist, you'd better take yourself off to bed. Do you need a bedtime story?" Patty's tone was deliberately playful as she reminded herself to be grateful he'd been able to spend as much time with her as he had, especially if he'd be working tomorrow and the next day.

"No, I'd better skip it this time. But thanks for the offer." Mike opened the car door and began unfolding himself from the car. "Good night, Patty," he said once the task was accomplished, bending down to be able to see her.

"Night, Mike." Her mouth was dry, like sandpaper, and her heart hammered in her chest when he nodded then shut the door firmly. _Did I do something?_ _Is that the way he usually shuts the door? Or did he slam it a bit? Maybe he didn't want to play cards. Or maybe Uncle Tommy said something to him while we were getting the snacks. Did Cousin Terry corner him in the men's room and ask his opinion about ostrich farming? Or, maybe it was me – he didn't want to see me tonight and I – ._

A tap on her car window interrupted the jumbled flow of doubts and self-recriminations. Mike.

"Change your mind about the bedtime story?" she asked hopefully after rolling down her window and sticking her head out.

"Sorry, hon, no," he said with a tiny chuckle, hunching down to be at eye level with her. "I just – ," he took a deep breath and let it out, glancing away. "I know I wasn't the best company tonight. I just … wanted to tell you – ," he met her eyes then, " – I'm glad you called me." _I needed you._ The words stuck in his throat but he reached out to tuck a wayward strand of dark hair behind her ear, fingers lingering on her skin.

"I'm glad, too, specialist." Relief flooded through her.

"But I really do need to get some sleep," he added, after kissing her with gentle restraint.

"Uh-huh, I know," she replied, reassured and calmer. "I'm gonna get outta here now so you can. Sweet dreams."

"You, too, hon." Stoker stepped back and watched until she had gone, then climbed the concrete and steel steps to his apartment. _Here's hoping they're sweet. I'm tired of the bitter ones._

=+++= / =+++=


	6. Kindred Feelings and Solitaire

**CHAPTER 5: KINDRED FEELINGS AND SOLITAIRE**

=+++= / +====

"Stoker."

"Hey, Dad."

"Michael! What's going on?"

"Just been a while since I've called." He gripped the phone more tightly. _Liar, liar._

"How's work going?"

"Work's fine." _ Pants on fire._

"And that pretty girlfriend of yours?"

"She's good, really good. How are you and Mom?"

"We're doing good, son. So when are you coming up to visit your old folks?"

"Uh, I'm not sure. I'm getting a lot of overtime these days."

"You know your mother won't be happy if she doesn't see you before we leave for England next month."

"I know, Dad. I'll try to visit soon."

"And bring Patty with you. She's a keeper."

"I know, Dad. I'll try." Pause. "Dad?"

"Yes, son?"

"I-I was wondering if you could give me some advice on – ." The tones sounded loudly in the background, cutting Mike off abruptly. "Sorry, Dad, gotta run." The handset rattled into the cradle imperfectly, failing to disconnect the call and giving Charles Stoker the rare opportunity to listen as his son went to work: the thump-woosh of a swinging door opening, the quick resonance of boots mounting metal steps, the creaking jangle of the bay door rising, the deep-throated purr of a big engine revving up, the dying wail of the siren retreating. A long minute later, he hung up the phone, turning the truncated conversation over in his mind. _What's wrong, son?_

=+++= / ++===

(12-13 September)

When Mike Stoker arrived at 86s, shortly before noon, he found the table full of lunch and the station empty of apparatus and personnel. He stowed his bag in an empty locker then put the still-steaming dishes of food back in the oven to stay warm and the iced drinks, salad, and condiments in the refrigerator to stay cold. Fifteen minutes later, he heard the captain clear them from the scene and busied himself with returning the food and drinks to the table. Stoker leaned against the counter, eating an apple he'd brought with him, waiting until the engine and ladder crews trooped back into the kitchen to make his presence known.

" – it's gonna be cold by now," an annoyed voice said from the bay, "and the cheese will have that nasty skin on top. In short, it will be inedible." Mike's gaze searched out the deep bowl of cheese sauce in the middle of the table. _Yep, stirred that one. No nasty skin this time._

"Now, Ben, it happens," another voice soothed. "Everyone knows that."

"Well, I just wish it didn't always happen to me," Ben replied as he stepped through the doorway, running his fingers through short dark hair in frustration. "Give me a minute, Cap, to see what can be salvaged – ." The sight of the table with hot food hot and cold food cold caused him to stop mid-stride. The sound of another bite being taken out of an apple caused the stocky man to swivel toward Stoker who continued chewing. "Who – ?"

"Mike Stoker from 51s," he replied after swallowing his last mouthful. "I'm filling in for – ."

"Me," crowed Jake Reynolds as he and the rest of the station flowed into the room, breaking around the unmoving figure and hustling toward the food. "It's all yours, man, all yours. You saved our lunch?"

"Yep," Mike replied succinctly and sucked the juices from the core of the apple before working it over with his teeth while the men took their places at the table.

"Grab a plate and pull up a seat, Stoker," Captain Halderon invited. He knew Stoker had probably already eaten before reporting for duty but it went against the grain for someone to be in his house and not be offered hospitality.

"Thank you, sir." He tossed the stripped apple core into the trash, rinsed his hands of the sweet sticky juice at the sink, took what he needed from the cabinets, and settled into the chair Jake had dragged over for him. "It looked good when I was putting it away."

"Ben's a decent cook," Jake put in, pulling a bowl of mashed potatoes towards him. "If we can keep his mind on the game, we might be able to make a decent bowler outta him, too." He winked in response to Mike's raised eyebrow.

"If that clown had goosed you, you would have dropped the ball too," the young lineman began heatedly, causing Stoker and the others to smile. _Although every house is different, some things are always the same_, he thought and relaxed a little bit more_._

=+++= / +++==

After lunch, Mike stowed his gear on the engine, in the seat behind the driver. He double-checked his equipment to make sure everything was in place, paying particular attention to the air pack since the departing Jake had informed him of Captain Halderon's standing rule about wearing SCBAs for all fires.

The memory of Chet struggling to get his gear on during a drill – after someone had surreptitiously twisted part of the harness – came to mind when he ran his fingers over the straps which seemed to be in order. They'd ribbed him about having the slowest time for weeks until Johnny discovered a dead-tired, half-asleep Chet drilling alone in the bay at two in the morning, muttering about not slowing everyone else down. The jokes had stopped, the crew had started drilling on SCBAs as a unit, and everyone's times and readiness had improved.

Now, Stoker slipped the SCBA on over his turnout coat and adjusted the straps, settling it on his shoulders and buckling it around his waist easily. The air mask took a moment longer to get in place and tightened down to his satisfaction. He breathed off the tank long enough to verify it was working properly then began shucking the equipment off methodically, satisfied everything was in order.

"Not bad … for an engineer," a voice said behind him. Mike turned to find Ben leaning against the far end of the engine, watching him closely, dark eyes unreadable.

"Thanks," Mike replied, not rising to the bait. He didn't know the kid or his limits, so he'd refrained from piling on with the rest of the guys during lunch, but he'd run into an attitude nonetheless. When he'd offered up a sincere compliment on the flavorful cheese dip – which tasted familiar although he couldn't place it – the young man's response had been an acidic glare that Jake had tried to neutralize with another joke.

"Got a question for you."

"Shoot." He finished re-stowing his gear and leaned against the metal by the pump panel, twin to Big Red. From experience, he knew exactly where he could put his hip and be comfortable. Given Ben's vaguely antagonistic attitude, Stoker made sure his own stance was neutral and nonthreatening, sliding one hand into a pocket.

"Are you as much of a lightweight as Kelly?"

"I'm sorry?" _That one really came out of left field. Is this kid a McConnikee or something?_

"Are you as much of a lightweight as that clown Chet Kelly when it comes to holding your liquor?" There was a bit of a sneer in his voice, which puzzled Mike.

"Well," Mike began carefully, "I'm not exactly sure how you define 'lightweight' or – ."

"Two beers and he was puking his guts out like a little girl."

"When was this?" Mike's eyes narrowed but he stayed still.

"Last night, at the bowling alley. Found him in the men's room after the tenth frame, hugging the porcelain goddess like a veteran."

"What did he say?"

"Say?"

"When you asked him if he was okay." Although the kid had the decency to redden at Mike's even-toned question, he filled the lengthening silence with bluster.

"It wasn't my turn to babysit your _boy_, Stoker."

"Ah." Mike pushed himself off the engine and turned away, heading toward the office where Captain Halderon was most likely working.

"Where are you going?" Ben's voice bordered on petulant now, reinforcing the bad impression he'd made.

"Gonna go check on my _brother_," Stoker tossed over his shoulder without pausing.

=+++= / ++++=

"DeSoto residence, this is Chris, how can I help you?" Mike couldn't help but smile at the boy's attempt to deepen his voice, an attempt which ended in an uneven warble in the tenor range.

"Hey, Chris, it's Mike Stoker. Is your dad up and around yet?" He knew Roy had pulled a double yesterday to bank an extra day for the annual DeSoto family vacation disaster.

"Yeah, just a minute." A hand was cupped lightly over the receiver. "Daaaaaad! Phone call!" Mere seconds after the full-throated bellow, Mike heard a muffled, "Sorry, Dad. I didn't realize you were – ."

"In the immediate vicinity, son?" The restrained amusement in Roy's voice reminded Mike of his own father's attempts to teach his brood manners. He could picture Roy ruffling Chris's hair and Chris trying unsuccessfully to duck out of it.

"Uh, yeah. It's Mike," Chris said, uncovering the phone to hand it to his parent with some semblance of grace.

"Thank you," Roy responded, taking the phone. "Hey, Mike, what's up? Everything okay?"

"Not sure. Have you heard from Chet in the last day or so?"

"No, not since last shift. Why?" Roy heard the murmur of dispatch in the background and realized Mike must be working a little overtime himself.

"According to, well, _someone_, Chet was blowing chunks after just two beers at the bowling alley last night."

"_Two_ beers? Two beers wouldn't – ."

"Yeah, that's why I wondered if he was coming down with something. He didn't pick up when I called and – ."

"I'll run over and check on him."

"I'm at 86s today so – ."

"I'll give you a call to let you know how it turns out."

"Thanks, Roy." Mike hung up the phone in the office. "Thank you, sir," he said to the fire captain who was sitting on the corner of the other desk. Unlike Station 51, there was no payphone in this station.

"A distracted fireman is no good to anyone," Halderon replied stolidly then broke into a full-face grin. "Besides, Kelly makes a good pot of chili whenever he's here."

=+++= / +++++

"Attewell, Stoker, take a two-and-a-half in the front door," Cap ordered once he'd sized up the scene. Mike stepped off the engine, slinging his SCBA on as he hustled to the end of the engine. Ben arrived simultaneously and took a half-step onto the engine to grab the nozzle, drape the hose over his shoulders and pull the first few loops down. Mike reached up and tugged additional hose off the bed, letting the line deploy from his arm as he headed for the house behind the shorter man.

Light gray smoke was pouring out of the one-story residence, pushing out under the eaves and puffing out of the half-open front door. In the rear of the home, fire had already spurted through a damaged part of the roof and flames were clearly visible through the windows. The flashing strobes from the engine and ladder lit the house intermittently, highlighting the ever-changing billows of smoke across the urban night sky. As they reached the small covered porch, Mike paused as Ben signaled for water and rechecked his SCBA. He glanced back at the engine, unconsciously counting off the seconds as the hose grew firm, then looked up at the front of the house.

Rapidly darkening smoke slid across the ceiling of the porch, curling up over the edge sinuously, and escaping into the night air. Stoker had seen the same signs before: the fire was about to flare. The hose slid forward through his hands as Attewell advanced up the steps and onto the stone porch without him.

"Ben! Wait!" Mike yelled as he lunged forward, pulling back on the hose to impede the younger man's progress. Just as Ben turned, the front room of the home flashed, vomiting great yellow tongues of flame through the doorway. The wall of heat battering his back and the reflection of the flames in Mike's facemask prompted Ben to swallow the sharp words he'd been about to offer the other man and crouch low instinctively; the flames shot over his head as he slid headfirst down the steps.

The fire quickly sucked up the air, slithering wildly along the ceiling of the porch as the smoke had done before it, flames dribbling upward past the roofline, splashing further into the sky as though a child had stomped in a puddle of fire with house-shaped boots. Flames dripped onto the shrubbery resulting in dozens of tiny, short-lived ignitions; simultaneously sharp-edged twists of fire leapt ten or more feet above the smoking shingles of the roof.

After the fire's initial surge, it retreated slightly but still illuminated the porch brightly, revealing a broken down lounger and a child's bicycle. "You okay, man?" Stoker asked, raising his voice to be heard through the mask. Ben's eyes were wide but Mike could see intelligence in them as he nodded. "Then let's pull the teeth of this beast before Cap gets on us about laying down on the job," he said and pushed himself up from where he'd hit the deck. He grabbed the charged line and pulled it backwards until he had the nozzle in his hands. Ben automatically took the back-up position and Mike aimed the hose at the porch ceiling, dousing the flames quickly and returning the porch to a smoky, steamy semi-darkness.

The heat radiating from the front room held them at bay, forcing Stoker to direct the water into the room from the base of the threshold until a second vent above the room allowed the heated smoke and gases to escape. Staying low, the pair advanced, Stoker grinning behind his mask as the flames drowned beneath his hands.

=+++= / =++++

"Actually, I think you know my mother."

"Oh?" Mike had a good idea where the conversation was headed now.

"Hilda McConnikee Attewell," Ben said. He laid his hand against the wall, checking for hotspots.

"Ah." Stoker smiled, unfazed. "That explains why the cheese dip was so good."

"Don't be hesitant when it comes to ripping out those walls, gentlemen," Captain Halderon said as he picked his way through the burnt out room, checking the progress of the overhaul.

"10-4, Cap," Mike responded and jabbed with the pike pole again. "I'm awful fond of sleeping through the night, too."

=+++= / ==+++

They'd been back at the station long enough to rinse the soot off and prep for the inevitable next run. Mike had detoured to the kitchen when his stomach reminded of the leftover cheese dip, finding he wasn't the only person with a snack in mind. While Ben babysat the cheese dip, running the station's new microwave for ten seconds at a time then stirring conscientiously until it was bubbly hot, Mike had pulled out raw vegetables, chips, and crackers suitable for dipping. Now, the two men sat at the table, munching quietly as the rest of the station began to settle for the night.

"Ben?" Stoker asked with a sideways glance.

"Hmpf?" The younger man had just put a large piece of broccoli, coated in cheese, into his mouth.

"I wanted to go over our initial entry, see if we could come up with something a little smoother to try next time." Mike crunched a bare carrot stick for a moment. "What do you say?"

"Well, okay," Ben replied after clearing his mouth, a small smear of cheese decorating his stubbly chin. "But what's the point? I mean, we're not likely to work together too often."

Stoker selected a large, ridged potato chip from the bag and skimmed it over the top of the sauce before replying. "Three reasons. First, debriefing after a close call is standard operating procedure and a good idea after any incident. Our entry wasn't the best. Going over what happened and why, and figuring out how it could have been done better helps a firefighter do his job more safely. We all need to do that." The chip disappeared into Mike's mouth in two quick bites. "Second, I am _not_ going to put my brother at risk," he punched Ben's arm lightly in emphasis, "whether we work together on every shift or once a year, by staying quiet when there's a potential issue. I don't have the luxury of letting it go just because he doesn't particularly like me." Stoker let his words work on the young firefighter's attitude for a few minutes while he busied himself with selecting a few crunchy veggies.

"It's not about liking – ," Ben started to explain but Mike cut him off with a wave of a celery stick.

"Doesn't matter."

"I – right." He took a deep breath and nodded. "Let's talk about our entry."

"Okay. What did you see as we approached the scene?"

"Wait, you said three reasons. What's the third reason?"

Mike grinned. "Third, … well, can you imagine what Patty Mack would do to me if I didn't at least try to keep Cousin Ben safe when I had the chance?"

=+++= / ===++

(14 September)

After they'd eaten a supper of stuffed pork chops and lemon-orzo salad, Patty pulled out a deck of cards from her purse. Sitting on the floor with her back against the couch, she shuffled them silently and dealt a standard solitaire layout on the coffee table. Mike watched from the kitchen for a few minutes as she began to play then went back to loading the dishwasher, one of the perks which had sold him on this new apartment despite the hassle of moving at the time. Although he had dessert in the refrigerator for later, the dishwasher was full enough to run; soon, the hum of the machine filled the apartment, highlighting the lack of noise which had preceded it.

Her continued silence bothered him. _She hardly said a word during supper. _The breeze coming in through the window held more than the usual hint of coolness, along with notes of jasmine and eucalyptus. _Is she getting sick? _When he had finished setting the kitchen to rights, he used his long legs to settle on the couch behind her, leaning forward to watch her game.

"Black jack on red queen," he murmured a few minutes later when she appeared to be at an impasse. She neatly placed the spade over the heart, turning over the card beneath the jack and playing it as well. Patty pulled three cards from the deck and looked at the new top card: ten of diamonds. When she didn't play it, Mike murmured again, "Red ten on black jack." Again, she neatly played the card he identified.

"You know," she said casually, flipping over the next three cards, "that's about the most conversation we've had tonight." He waited, knowing there was more. "Care to tell me what's going on?" She looked up at him, tilting her head straight back to do so, and waited on him.

"Sorry. What would you – ," he began, then changed his mind mid-sentence. "That is, how is your research going for the medieval lit prof? Have you turned up anything interesting?" As a research librarian at the university, Patty spent much of her time digging out obscure references. Because she enjoyed both the search and the information, a simple inquiry would usually be enough to start Patty talking.

Not so tonight.

"Let's talk about you, specialist."

"Me?" he asked disingenuously, leaning back a bit and trying to appear relaxed even though tension crawled up his belly. "What do you want to know about me that you don't already know?" She turned then, half-facing him, ignoring the intimacy of her position between his thighs.

"Oh, c'mon, _Mike._ I want to know what's – ," she began almost angrily and then stopped, staring up at him, seeing something in his face, his eyes that silenced her. Various emotions flitted across her face too rapidly for him to categorize. "Never mind," Patty said finally, voice soft, and turned back to her game slowly. _Stop pushing him, you idiot. He obviously doesn't want to confide in you. _

Mike frowned, surprised at her actions. Most of the time when she wanted to _know_ something, she was relentless. For her to begin a sentence with 'I want to know' and then give up was not just odd, it was downright troubling. He sat forward again, returning to his earlier position and watched her play, not sure of what to do or say. _You could talk to her, that's what she wants_, a tiny bit of his heart volunteered shyly but was batted down: _I can handle it. And she doesn't need to hear that kind of stuff._

Patty hesitated when he sat back up, able to feel the warmth from his body surrounding her like a cloak. That was one thing which had surprised her when they'd gotten closer in a literal sense – how _hot_ his body was, all the time. Initially, she'd thought he might be feverish but learned he was just decidedly exothermic. She'd suggested the vanity plate for his truck for that reason as much as anything else, truly surprised when he had agreed to her whimsical idea. _That seems like ages ago. What happened to make him so cold and locked down? _

With an inaudible sigh, she continued to play and, after a while, feeling the weight of his regard, she deliberately started missing plays, taking longer as the stack of available cards dwindled. "Red seven on black eight," he murmured finally, his voice as hesitant as she felt. The diamond covered the club as relief flowed over her, causing her to shiver slightly. _Advice on solitaire ain't much but it's a lot better than – . _

"Are you cold?" Mike asked immediately, making her aware of how closely he'd been watching her.

"I – maybe a little," she admitted, turning her head slightly to look over her shoulder at him. Without hesitation, he nimbly extricated himself from the couch and moved over to shut the window.

"Do you need a blanket?" he asked, opening the chest where he kept blankets and other items for avuncular sleepover events and rummaging through it without waiting for an answer.

"Not really," Patty said then stopped when he pulled out a flowery pink comforter. The name 'Anna' was embroidered neatly in one corner, indicating it belonged to Mike's youngest niece.

"Sure?" _I want to make things better, hon._ The earnestness in his gaze melted her heart.

"A blanket would be nice," she amended.

"Lean forward and I'll – put it around you." She leaned forward and felt the softness start to cover her shoulders then retreat. "Wait. Could you scoot forward? A little more." She obliged. Mike perched on the edge of the couch behind her, draped the blanket over her shoulders, then slid down onto the floor, one leg on either side of her, and wrapped his arms and the blanket around her. "Is this better?" There was a tiny tremor of uncertainty in his voice.

"Yes," she said, mouth dry. "Much."

"Good." After a long moment during which neither of them moved, he asked, "Did you want to continue your game?"

A laugh bubbled up from inside her. "Well, it's a little hard to do that, all bundled up like this." When he'd wrapped the blanket around her, he'd trapped her arms inside it.

"I'll be your hands; you stay warm." Keeping his elbows close to her to hold the blanket in place, Mike unwrapped his arms enough to reach the cards. "I'm yours to command, Miss McConnikee." She turned her head; his laugh when she kissed his bulging bicep – about the only part of him she could reach from her fuzzy cocoon – vibrated from his chest into her back.

"Black six on red seven," she said pertly and watched his hands do her bidding. "Turn." _It might take a while longer, but I'm not giving up on you._

Three games of solitaire later, the bland interaction of the card game had relaxed into a more comfortable repartee, interspersed with laughs and silly commands Mike followed promptly, even though she'd freed her arms a game and a half ago. He hadn't told her what was wrong, what had been bothering him for the last month, but they were interacting again and that was all that mattered at the moment.

Content to be patient and secure her position, Patty leaned against him snugly and tilted her head back, inviting a second kiss. _Thanks, Mom_, she thought before responding to his gentle lips and letting the cards fall from her fingers, warmed by both his flesh and his renewed affection.

=+++= / ====+

_(Several years earlier)_

Morgana McConnikee was angry. Smoke pouring from her ears angry. Sparks flying from the ends of her long dark hair angry. Fire sprouting from her mouth angry. Green eyes burning hot enough to scare the devil into hiding under the stairway to heaven angry.

It was a sight to behold.

The man who was primarily responsible for said anger was, in a word, oblivious. Without meeting her eyes, he reached over to take the tray from her lap. "All done, love?" he asked solicitously and picked up the tray without waiting for a response.

"What if I say no?" she asked acidly, producing a tiny hesitation in her husband's movements.

"Are you saying no?" Henry asked calmly, meeting those beautiful angry eyes at last. _Hold on, buddy, just hold on._

"No." She dropped her eyes and picked at the front of her nightgown, rubbing the small spot of barbeque sauce which had evaded the napkin. His eyes followed her hands and he noticed how the action pulled the silky fabric tight against her full breasts. _Give it a rest, Henry Malone, and get hold of yourself_, he castigated himself silently, forcing himself to look away from his wife's alluring body_._ He stared at the alarm clock by the bed, watching the second hand tick through a minute that seemed to last an hour.

"Do you want anything else right now?" he asked when he was able to force his voice to be calm and solicitous once more, shifting his hungry eyes back to her beautiful face.

"Yes, I want to – ." She bit off what she was going to say, holding in the angry, frustrated words she wanted to spew at him. Morgan closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and slowly exhaled. "Yes," she said in a more moderate tone of voice, "I would like to play cards." She opened her eyes, pinning him with her stare.

"Cards?" he asked surprised. _She's five months pregnant and she wants to play cards? Maybe she means solitaire. Then I can go hide somewhere – ._

"Cards. I would like to play cards. With you. Here." She gestured at the bed – their bed – in which she was situated. He'd carefully placed extra pillows behind her earlier, to offer her maximum support and comfort, leaning close to her but not touching her. Morgan's nostrils had twitched at the blend of scents which made up her husband. That faint smell of smoke on his skin combined with his aftershave had been intoxicating, making her hungry – but not for the supper he'd insisted on serving her in bed. _As if I were an invalid._

"I'll get the deck and be right back," Henry said finally and left the room, mind whirling again. _I have the most beautiful woman in the world as my wife. I go weak in the knees when she looks at me. And now she wants me to sit across from her – in our bed nonetheless – and just, just play cards? When all I want to do is make love to her from now until the morning? Oh, Morgana, my __súile-glasa__, you are cruel._

She smoothed her hair back in an effort to calm herself then dropped her hands into her lap again, fingering the edge of the blanket. Thanks to Henry's efforts, the creamy sheets and forest green comforter were clean and tidy. The pristine neatness, however, made her angry all over again. "If we don't rumple these sheets together again soon, buddy, I am just gonna lose it," she muttered under her breath after he left, frustration gnawing at her. "I'm _pregnant_, not dead."

A few hours later, she sighed in contentment and snuggled closer to Henry, legs tangled in his under the untucked sheet. He caressed her bare hip in response, lazily sweeping calloused fingers up her back, before returning his hand to her gravid belly, stroking lightly. _Knew it_, she thought drowsily_, knew if I could just get him to interact, I'd get him to talk and then I'd figure out what was going on in his stubborn Irish brain. Forget diamonds, a deck of cards is a girl's best friend. _A gentle tumbling sensation startled her back awake. "Henry!" she said softly and pressed his hand firmly against her stomach. "Did you feel that?" _I'm glad you approve, little one, of your daddy's touch. So do I._

=+++= / =+++=

_Note: I had hoped to__ hook up with my technical advisors about the fire scene in this chapter but couldn't seem to make it work. I consulted the research materials I have on fire behavior and a number of videos of actual flashovers to get a better idea of what it might look like. I used a specific video as the base then modified the details to fit better in with the story. Hopefully, I haven't made too many mistakes. If I have, please let me know so I can tweak the scene or, if it cannot be salvaged, put a mea culpa at the top of this chapter.  
_


	7. Pattycake, Pattycake, Pumper Man

**CHAPTER 6: PATTYCAKE, PATTYCAKE, PUMPER MAN**

=+++= / +====

(18 September)

Shivering slightly in the cool dewy morning air, Patty was determined to capitalize on the breakthrough she'd made with Mike a few nights ago. After the taxi cab that had brought her here pulled away, she pulled out the key and opened the door quietly, nervously going over her timetable once more.

At 7 a.m., the morning tones would sound at the station, rousing the men from their night's sleep, no matter how broken by runs. Shift change would occur officially an hour later, although most of the incoming shift would arrive twenty to thirty minutes before and Mike might be lucky enough to be relieved a bit early. In any event, she anticipated that, no later than 8:15 a.m., Stoker would stroll out the side door and head for his truck and home.

At which time Patty planned to make her presence known.

She didn't intend for their meeting to last very long – work did await her at the university after all – but she hoped the few stolen moments could brighten his morning and sweeten his dreams if he needed to recapture sleep lost on shift. The few hours of sleep she'd lost by getting up extra early this morning were a small price to pay for seeing him, even briefly, since their schedules for the next few days would make spending time together all but impossible.

So sitting in his pickup truck, breakfast food warm in the insulated bag on her lap, she waited.

When Patty heard the muted sound of the morning tones inside the station, she watched more closely for some sign of life. Perhaps twenty minutes later, a car pulled into a space at the far end of the parking lot and two men got out, walking toward the building without looking in her direction. By 7:50, she was certain the rest of the new crew – six men in all – had arrived but still no one had come out of the building, other than one man with owlishly large glasses. He had added a bag of trash to the dumpster before returning briskly to the station. When he turned, Patty noticed the paramedic patch on his sleeve but didn't recognize him.

About fifteen minutes later, a Volkswagen Microbus wheeled into the parking lot, executing a smoky three-point turn and stopping beside the rear doors. As Patty watched, five blue-shirted men exited the building, turnout gear in hand, and clambered into the vehicle. The paramedic she'd seen earlier followed with a box of supplies, which he handed in before taking his place and sliding the door closed. The fair-headed driver turned to check his passengers were safely inside then put the red-and-white van in motion, smoothly pulling out into the morning traffic as the rear doors rumbled closed on a deserted apparatus bay.

=+++= / ++===

"Good morning, sir," the police officer working traffic control said when the VW had slowed to a stop at his signal. He'd been at the scene of the four-alarm fire since it had been called in just after six that morning and was past hoping a cup of hot coffee was in his near future. "How may I help you?"

"I'm ferrying a new crew in for 51s," the man replied succinctly, gesturing toward the firefighters packed into the back. "Can you let the battalion chief know I'm on scene and ask where to drop these guys off?" A few minutes later, the Microbus carefully made its way over a series of hose bridges to where Hank Stanley and his crew waited to be relieved. When he'd changed out his compliment of fresh, clean firefighters for tired, sooty ones, the driver reversed course and headed back to the station.

As he drove, he examined the men's faces in his rearview mirror without success. Finally, he turned to the man sitting in the other front seat, speaking quietly so as not to disturb the others.

"Hey, Hank, wonderin' if I can ask you a question?"

"Sure, Smitty, fire away." Hank stifled a yawn.

"Which one o' these characters thinks he's H-O-T-S-T-F?"

"Ahg-oh-tee — oh, HOTSTF. That'd be Stoker, the tall guy in the back there, the one not yet drooling on his collar. Why? What's up?"

"Just noticed someone sittin' in his truck back at the station, wanted to be able to let the right guy know." Smitty grinned wickedly then, the action stripping years off his face. "In case I needed to drop 'im off somewhere else, give 'im a headstart outta the parkin' lot, whatever."

Hank chuckled. "I doubt that'll be necessary. Did she have dark hair?"

"Now, I don't recall sayin' the _someone_ was a she, but yeah _she_ did. Kinda pretty from what I could tell, although she looked way too young for _me_." He'd gotten a glimpse of her when she'd hurried around the front of the truck as they pulled out, hand raised to stop them.

"Bet it's Patty, Cap," Chet said irrepressibly, leaning forward from his position in the middle seat to deposit his two cents into the conversation. Without Chet's body wedging them tight, Marco and Johnny both shifted as the vehicle turned a corner, rousing them from the half-sleep they'd been enjoying. Marco shot Chet a dirty look, then pushed Johnny upright and off of him before righting himself with a grunt.

"You're probably right," Stanley agreed, eyes sliding over to the man behind the wheel. "You remember Patty, don't you, Smitty?" When his old stationmate looked puzzled, he chuckled. "Let me give you a hint." Hank cleared his throat and tried to imitate his former captain's booming voice without actually yelling: "'My niece had better not hear that kinda talk, Smitty, or this time I _will_ wash your mouth out with soap!'" Mike and Roy both roused at Cap's stern voice and looked at each other blankly, Roy wiping his mouth of the unbecoming drool.

"Patty Mack? You shi — uh, kidding me?" Smitty exclaimed, surprise lifting his eyebrows and his voice. "I haven't seen her in years but she was always a sweet one. Real polite, too. Patty Mack had an awful poker face, though. Just awful." Noticing how carefully HOTSTF was listening now, he added, "Lousy poker face or not, little Patty Mack has certainly grown up nicely." He wiggled one hand in the air to indicate her womanly shape, winking at Hank.

"Hey! What was that about my girl?" Stoker's voice came from the back of the bus, the comically possessive tone causing everyone to laugh as they pulled into the station parking lot.

=+++= / +++==

Patty slipped from Mike's truck when she saw him climb out of the back of the Microbus, crossing to him bashfully as she became aware of the masculine grins decorating the other faces still gathered 'round. Before she reached him, however, one strong arm wrapped around her and pulled her into an enthusiastic bear hug. The familiar badge on his chest confirmed the man was with the fire department and when she looked up at him, she squealed with delight.

"Mr. Smitty!" she exclaimed and returned his one-armed hug whole-heartedly.

"So does Cap'n M'Con'kee know you're still hangin' out at fire stations, Patty Mack?" he asked teasingly as he released her. "I don't want to get ya in trouble … again." Before she could do more than blush in response, the HT in Smitty's pocket beeped. "Uh-oh, gotta run," he said and headed briskly back toward the driver's seat. "Good seein' ya, little lady."

"Stay safe, Mr. Smitty," Patty replied automatically and waved as he left the lot. Turnout coat still half-fastened, Mike was leaning against the side of the building now, a faint smile drifting across his face. The others had already started into the station when Smitty fired the van up, Cap nodding to Mike to take his time. "Hey, specialist," she offered when she turned back to him. "I, uh, brought you some breakfast."

"Good," he said, pushing himself from the wall. "I'm starved." He moved to hug her then took in her crisp, light-colored shirt and his own sooty jacket and stopped, holding up one hand. Mike undid his coat and opened it. Patty stepped forward and snuggled up to him under the coat before he could take it off completely as he'd planned. "Well, hi there, Miss McConnikee," he said with a laugh, pulling her nearer and letting the turnouts close over her. _In for a penny, in for a pound._

"Mike?" she said a minute later, voice oddly muffled. "Could you let me go for a minute?"

"Sure," he replied and loosened his hold, looking down into her bemused face. "What's the matter?"

"Well, don't take this the wrong way, but you're, uh, all icky."

Mike looked down at his sweat-soaked t-shirt, a familiar work casualty he hardly noticed anymore, plucking the already drying garment off his chest with two fingers, fluffing it slightly. "Maybe a little bit," he admitted, grinning as she pulled back playfully as the odor hit her. "But," he said and leaned closer to whisper in her ear, deliberately sliding his cheek along hers as he did, "I'm also scruffy."

=+++= / ++++=

Hank gave the captain's paperwork a lick and a promise before setting out, thick dark hair still damp from the quick shower he'd taken to keep himself in his wife's good graces. Quickly exchanging bunker pants for civvies, Johnny, Roy, and Marco each headed straight home without a backward glance. Chet dressed more slowly after scrubbing the smell of smoke and sweat from his body, listening to the water gurgling in the shower drain and biding his time until Stoker was done.

About ten minutes ago, Mike had wandered in, peeled off his gear, and sauntered into the shower with a half-smile on his face. Chet brushed his teeth a second time to occupy himself. When he put his damp toothbrush away and pulled out his shoes to kill a few more minutes, he noticed Mike's closed shaving kit was in his open locker.

"Hey Stoker! You want your razor?" Chet asked, raising his voice just enough to be heard over the water.

"What?"

"Your razor, man." Shaving in the shower wasn't Chet's cup of tea but the engineer swore by it.

"No, thanks," Mike replied, shutting off the water. His reflection moved through the lightly fogged up mirror as he crossed to his locker a few moments later.

Chet worked bits of red-colored clay out of soles and seams in his work shoes with a damp cloth then spoke. "So, you got any plans for tonight?"

"Just sleep," Mike answered, pulling on a clean shirt and thinking about Patty's reaction to the aromatic t-shirt now huddled on the floor. _Icky, huh?_

"Wanna grab a beer at O'Malley's tonight, hang out for a while?"

"Can't. I'm working tomorrow." He rubbed the towel over his hair and finger-combed it into place. _That'll do for now. Patty'll probably mess it up anyway._ Mike smiled at the thought.

"Oh." _Strike one_. "Don't suppose you'd be interested in getting together this afternoon, maybe bowl a few frames?" Kelly picked up the brush and attacked his shoe with it, sending small flecks of dirt flying. "I could use the practice and – ."

"This afternoon's not good. I'm supposed to go see my folks for a few hours." _Maybe_, he amended silently.

"Uh, right." _Strike two._ "Then how about breakfast this morning?" Chet put the brush down and looked for the scrap of cloth he usually used on his shoes. "After that fire, I could eat a – ."

"Actually," Mike said, looking up from tying his shoes, "Patty brought breakfast for the two of us. That's why she stopped by."

"Ah." _And strike three. _He smoothed the ends of his mustache, considering his options, and sighed softly. He wiped down the shoe, put the cloth on the bench beside him and pulled out the bottle of black shoe polish, shaking it vigorously.

"Chet?" He waited until Kelly looked up, eyebrows raised in inquiry. "You okay?" Mike had slipped on the soft coat he'd worn in the day before and shut his locker, bag over his shoulder, clearly ready to leave.

"Me? Yeah, man, I'm good." He ducked his head over the shoe as he systematically applied shoe polish to the leather, leaving a trail of tiny black bubbles at the edge of the small sponge applicator. The foam was short-lived, wiped out of existence by the next pass. "Or, I will be once I get these shoes clean again." He glanced up at Mike in time to see his expression change.

Stoker looked at Chet's work shoes, one glistening wetly with fresh polish and the other dull and daubed with dry mud, and, remembering why, felt his throat tighten slightly.

The rescue of three teenagers who'd gotten in trouble while exploring up in the hills had been fairly routine, until a farm truck hauling water had stalled on the steep road above where they were working. Several hundred gallons of water had escaped from the leaking tank, cascading down what had been a stable slope and creating a muddy morass between the rescue party and the safety lines they needed to return to the road. Kelly and the others had been forced to cross the reddish brown mud and retrieve the ropes before Mike and the crew from 127s could haul them topside, slippery foot by slippery foot. Five pairs of damp, mud-streaked shoes returned to the station and were left to dry in the bay for a few hours while the firemen responded to a minor apartment fire in backup footwear.

Mike's shoes had remained on his feet, unsullied, throughout the day. Now, they were sitting neatly in his locker, still clean, waiting for the next shift.

"Right." Mike swallowed hard; he'd learned that sometimes helped with the whole can't-breathe-right-now thing. "I'll see you later then." Chet nodded and continued to work diligently on returning his shoes to order until Stoker had left the room.

=+++= / +++++

Running water and the sound of retching assaulted him when he pushed open the back door a short time later. Stoker's annoyance with himself – _shoes, Stoker, shoes would be good to work in_ – evaporated as he saw Chet doubled up over the kitchen sink, face splotchy and contorted with the effort of emptying his stomach. A half-eaten piece of toast, burnt nearly black, rested on the counter beside him.

Mike approached quickly, waiting until the spasm passed before speaking. "Easy, now," he said, resting his hand on Chet's back. "Think you can – ?"

"I'm okay," he said, scooping water from the faucet into his mouth and spitting it out again a few times. The small amount of emesis left slid down the drain as he directed the stream of water around the metal sink with his hand. He coughed lightly, spat once, and cut off the water, turning away from the sink and from Mike.

Chet's explanation of his illness at the bowling alley last week as relayed by Roy took on new meaning. "This is not okay," Mike said, irritation rising. _What is with you?_

"Yeah, well, it's nothing serious then. How's that for an answer, _Mikey_?" Kelly cocked his head to one side, one hand on his hip, the other tapping against his leg in an annoyed rhythm. His bloodshot eyes watered despite his steady gaze.

"It's an answer," Stoker replied after a moment and stalked from the room to get his shoes. On the return trip, he found the kitchen empty and Chet's vehicle gone from its space. He took a deep breath as he crossed to his truck, trying to get a handle on his frustration before Patty noticed. He pulled on a smile as he got in, an apology for the delay forming on his lips.

"Chet asked me to give you a message," Patty said slowly before he could speak.

"Oh?" Mike's gut tightened. _He wouldn't._

"He said to remind you more than one kid died in that fire."

=+++= / =+++=

_Please excuse the anachronistic use of firefighter vanity plates herein. Apparently Mike's license plate was well ahead of its time here … by about two decades. If you just want to think of them as regular vanity plates, California was awash with them by the late 1970s._

_Here's a fun fact-finding story for y'all. So, I called my local fire department and asked how an incident that extended over a shift change would be handled. He explained the shift on duty when the call came would handle the incident as long as necessary and that was just part and parcel with being a firefighter. If someone from the next shift was there already, they'd take the call. When I asked specifically about an extended incident – an ongoing urban search or a multi-alarm fire, for example – he indicated that the new shift would be brought in at some point although he wasn't sure of the details of when or how. A few days later, I happened to catch an incident which happened not long before a shift change and – sure enough – Command did bring in the rest of the C shift to relieve the B shift guys when it was practicable._


	8. Truth and Consequences

**CHAPTER 7: TRUTH AND CONSEQUENCES**

=+++= / +====

(20 September)

"Stoker, grab a shower if you want, and then hit the rack," Hank said after roll call. "I'll give the engine a once over for you."

"Thanks, Cap." Mike yawned hugely and headed directly to the dorm, loosening his shirt as he went. Marco nodded slightly, agreeing with his decision.

Chet pounced as soon as the other man was through the door. "What's up with Mike?" Johnny and Roy paused in their morning inventory for the answer.

"He's pulling a double," Marco explained. When he'd seen Mike roll in, visibly tired, he'd teased him about partying all night with his girl – until he'd learned he'd been partying all night with a fire hose.

"That's right," Chet said, snapping his fingers. "He mentioned that the other day." _Least he wasn't just blowing me off._

"Where'd he work at?" Roy asked, sorting the supplies in the trauma box. _Wonder if it was 86s again. If it is, I'll check him over for bruises._

"Uh, pretty sure it was 18s," Marco responded.

"Ouch," Johnny said. He held up three fingers then flipped his hand over and raised a fourth finger, indicating the counts for Ringers and D5W to Roy who documented it. "They caught that fire over on Hargrove last night, didn't they?" The fire had taken several hours and several companies to finally extinguish.

"That they did, Johnny," Cap put in, returning from his office with an inspection checklist on his clipboard. _Don't do this often enough anymore to satisfy Stoker's particularity without a cheat sheet._ "And then they had a couple of runs after that so pretty much no one in the house got any sleep. Figured it wouldn't hurt for Michael to get a little shut-eye if he could."

"Yeah, you never know when – ."

"_Don't_ say it, Chet!" Johnny admonished loudly enough for Marco and Roy to hush him simultaneously. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he said in a markedly softer tone. "Just – don't jinx us."

=+++= / ++===

Thirty minutes later, the klaxons sounded, yanking Stoker from a deep sleep. He made it into the bay on autopilot, careening into the back corner of the engine. Johnny, coming from the other direction, witnessed the collision and grabbed Mike's arms to steady him. "Whoa, man, where ya goin'?" he asked.

"Engine," he mumbled and shook his head as if to clear it.

"Chet! Marco!" Johnny's voice sounded through the station, pulling both linemen back out of the dayroom and to his side.

Marco sized up the situation first and took Stoker's arm. "Got him." Gage nodded and slid into the squad, shutting the door firmly as Roy started forward.

"C'mon, sleeping beauty, back to bed with you," Chet said, causing Marco to chuckle as the squad pulled away to respond to the generic 'person injured' call and they led the engineer back to the dorms. Neither noticed the frown settling on Hank Stanley's face or his slow, thoughtful walk back to the office.

=+++= / +++==

"Cap? You wanted to see me?"

After ninety minutes of uninterrupted sleep and a shower, Stoker had been able to resume the role of conscious and competent engineer; coffee and calories sustained the performance through mid-afternoon. Captain Stanley had spent a good deal of the time between runs in his office, checking station logs for the past month or so, sifting the ashes of his memories for clues to his engineer's behavior and – reluctantly – making a few phone calls.

"Come on in, Mike, and shut the door." Hank cleared his throat once Mike settled into the chair he'd pointed out. He noted the slight unsteadiness in the younger man's gait. _Too much coffee, not enough sleep, what? _"I thought it might be a good idea for us to talk about this morning." Stoker nodded slowly, with what might be reluctance flicking over his face. "So, what's going on?" He resisted the urge to lean back into his casual captain pose. If what he'd been told was an accurate picture of what happened, _casual_ was the wrong stance to take.

"You know I worked overtime at 18s? Even before that fire on Hargrove, the shift was – challenging." _Mike-speak for busy, messy or frustrating._ "Then we were up most of the night and I guess, I guess I was more tired than I thought." Mike's smooth, ready words sounded rehearsed to Hank's already suspicious ear. "I'm sorry about – ."

"I meant, what's going on with _you_," Hank interrupted. "Something's been bothering you lately." _Don't make me pry it out of you._

"It's nothing serious, Cap, really." Despite the sincerity in Mike's expression, the stock answer came too fast for Hank's taste. _I've heard that before. _He narrowed his eyes and leaned forward.

"_Two_ different fire captains called _before_ five-thirty this morning to talk to me about one of _my_ men. I think that pushes it – whatever _it_ is – firmly into the serious category. Don't you?" Heavy silence was Mike's only outward response. "So, I'll ask again: what is going on with you?" He forced himself to wait for an answer, wishing he'd been able to keep the exasperation out of his voice. _C'mon, talk to me._

The long silent minutes began to grate on Hank's nerves and a low-level dread began to build inside him. _Why is it so hard to be patient with family sometimes?_ The tones could sound at any moment and call them away before this was dealt with. _And it has to be dealt with._ Stoker knew that; he'd been a fireman too long to count on the silence at the station. _Is that the plan?_ Wasting time like this was a luxury, one Hank couldn't supply in endless measure today. "Michael?"

"I don't know what to tell you." Mike's voice was flat and he didn't look up. Disappointment flooded through the older man, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

If his second-in-command had given him anything to work with, anything at all, Hank Stanley would have been able to justify letting him off the hook. Instead, he was compelled to protect the rest of his men – and the citizens of the County of Los Angeles. He forced himself to add an extra measure of firmness to his next words. "Stoker, you're relieved for the remainder of this shift. Your replacement is on standby already and should be here in about twenty minutes. If there's a call before he gets here, we'll run a short crew on the engine." He paused and stood, signaling the end of the discussion. "Change, Stoker, and go on home."

Mike didn't move. "Please," he began then stopped, swallowing hard. "Please – ." He flinched when the tones sounded and looked up, eyes pleading.

Realizing the call was for the squad, Hank remained in place as though his feet were bolted to the floor; Roy or someone else could easily acknowledge the dispatch. _They'd better_, he thought darkly_. _He heard a crisp response to the dispatcher above the rumble of the bay doors rising followed by the departure of the squad, all in the space of less than a full minute. The smooth, efficient functioning of the rest of his crew soothed Hank's irritation. "Go home, son, and get some rest," he said gently, responding to but not yielding to the pain in Mike's eyes. "I'll tell the guys you asked off because you were feeling ill." As the doors reversed course and the siren faded, he added, "I'd like to stop by in the morning, see how you are?"

"I-I'll go change," Mike said finally, without acknowledging Hank's request. He left the office, moving stiffly as he made his way around the front of the engine. Hank watched him and sighed, rubbing the back of his neck in frustration, once he heard Stoker pass through the far door.

"Mike okay?" Chet asked quietly almost at his elbow; it was all Hank could do not to jump out of his skin. He was about to admonish the Phantom's alter ego for eavesdropping then realized whose voice he'd heard responding to Sam Lanier's dispatch. Chet had just been doing his job, not lurking.

"Leave it be, Kelly," Stanley replied without heat, dropping his hand self-consciously, then glanced at his somber lineman. Chet's face was made to smile but too often lately, Hank realized, he'd seen a calculating sobriety instead. Not the eager speculation of a phantom prankster but the heavy theorizing of a concerned comrade. _Like now. Maybe I missed something here too_, he thought. "Got a minute?" he asked and Kelly turned to look at him, meeting his eyes without hesitation.

"Sure, Cap," Chet responded and stepped into the office before Hank could even move. Or he could change his mind.

=+++= / ++++=

Lopez was in the locker room when Stoker entered but didn't comment as he watched the engineer slowly change into civvies. He'd taken the return call from Miller, placing him on hold and informing his distracted superior of the call. Miller was a good engineer, easy enough to work with, but not the type to phone the station just to shoot the breeze, so Marco suspected Hank had noticed Mike still wasn't feeling up to par, despite the catnap. _Hope it's not more than just fatigue_, he thought.

"Mike?"

"Gah," Stoker replied indistinctly then cleared his throat and tried again. "Yeah?"

"You know Mama is always willing to bring food or whatever over for you, so just call me if you need anything. Okay?"

"Sure." The ambiguous reply was unusually subdued, even for Mike, causing Marco to look at the man more closely. Mike met his eyes then dropped them back to the bag he was zipping closed. A worried frown settled on Marco's face as Stoker closed his locker and stepped toward the door. Hand raised to push the door open, Mike paused. "Marco?" he said, without turning.

"_Si_?"

"Thanks."

"_De nada, amigo._ Just – get better."

=+++= / +++++

When a burst water main had closed the university library early, giving Patty the rest of the day off, she'd taken the initiative and gone shopping. A quick trip to a local farmer's market had netted her two bags of the apples Mike liked and plenty of fresh vegetables for her father's return to town tomorrow. As she approached Station 51 to drop off the apples, she caught a glimpse of flashing red lights down the street. Despite the evidence of Mike's absence now wailing around the corner and onto Wilmington, Patty pulled her car into the station lot. _I'll just leave them on his truck_, she thought, slipping into the first empty spot_. Someone will notice._ She grabbed the bag and got out of her car then glanced around.

Mike's truck was nowhere to be found.

Roy's sleek sports car, Marco's dark green muscle car, Johnny's rugged white box, and what had to be Chet's current fixer-upper assured her A-shift was working today. _What is going on? _She walked around the corner of the building and surveyed the lot once more.

"Can I help you, miss?" The deep voice startled Patty and caused her to spin around. A fireman – an engineer by his insignia, S. Miller by nametag – stood a few feet away from her. She could see a new vehicle had quietly pulled in while she was contemplating the asphalt's barrenness.

"I – uh, I was looking for Firefighter Specialist Michael D. Stoker?" she replied, voice rising sharply in inquiry. _Why did I say it that way? Why didn't I just say 'Mike' like a normal person?_

"Specialist Stoker is not on duty at present." He was correct, formal – and giving nothing away.

"He was supposed to be." She fumbled with her purse, setting the bag of apples down on the pavement, and pulled out a pocket calendar, flipping to the appropriate day. A small red _A_ was under the number. _Yes._ "A-shift is on duty today. Right?"

"Yes, miss. But at present Specialist Stoker is not working." A ripple of annoyance at his precise politeness crossed her face. _He knows something and he's hiding behind this-this façade. _

"Look, do you know where Mike is?" Patty picked up the apples, prepared to track Stoker down. _I hope he's not hurt. I'll call Uncle Tommy if necessary._

"I wouldn't have any idea, but I can take a message and pass it along if you'd like, Miss – ?"

"McConnikee," she said distractedly, pulling out the small notebook she kept in an outer pocket of her purse. There was always something she wanted to write down.

"McCon – hey, are you Patty?" Miller's voice warmed markedly and his body relaxed when she nodded. "I'm Sam Miller," he said as he held out his hand, casually converting the gesture into a wave when he recognized her hands were full. "I'm here to replace Mike. He's fine," he added hurriedly when Patty's eyes grew wide, smiling reassuringly. "Captain Stanley said Mike was just overly tired from working another double shift this week. My guess? Stoker's fast asleep at his place already."

"Thanks, really, thanks," Patty said, ready to bolt as soon as she could. "Here," she said and thrust the bag of apples into his hand before turning to walk quickly to her car, tossing the notebook, the calendar and her purse into the seat. Miller watched, bemused, as Patty drove away. _Chill out, babe,_ he thought. _It's nothing serious._

=+++= / =++++

She found him at his apartment complex, still sitting in his truck, head bowed over the steering wheel, shoulders heaving. When she knocked on his window, he jerked upright and stared at her for several long seconds, still gasping for breath. Patty reached for the door handle, not noticing it was locked until she had tugged on it unsuccessfully. "Mike, unlock the door," she said slowly and firmly. He moved to comply, not quite able to shake off whatever had paralyzed him.

"Hey there – ," he began in a voice too high, too breathless to be normal, when he'd finally opened the door.

"Not one word, Stoker," she interrupted and reached for his arm, catching and holding his eyes with her own. "You're coming home with me." He took a deep breath and nodded, letting her lead him away.

=+++= / ==+++

"Michael."

Patty opened her eyes at the sound of his voice. "What?" she asked.

"The boy who died in the fire, the one Chet mentioned." Stoker's voice was even, soft and controlled. "His name was Michael, too."

Nestled against his shoulder, Patty stayed utterly still, afraid to do anything to interrupt or discourage him from talking about this. _You asked for this, _she thought, _you pleaded with him to talk to you._ She'd found the courage on the drive home to press Mike about why he'd left the station early and had known there was more to the story he offered.

"Michael Dylan Varela." He spaced the boy's name out carefully, rolling the _r_ slightly. "His favorite color was green. He turned eight three days before he died." That sentence was an exercise in control. "His father was scheduled to be out of town on his birthday but arrived home a day early so the whole family went out bowling. He ate three hot dogs, one with relish, one with ketchup, and-and one with mustard. When he fell asleep that night, he was still holding the handle of the green wood-slat wagon his grandfather had made for his special day."

Mike stroked her hair silently for a moment, as the hammock they were in swayed gently. He drew a deep breath through his nose, taking in the subtle fragrances of the flowers in her backyard, and continued. "He loved chocolate milk but shared the last glass of it with his sister Isabella that morning at breakfast because he loved her more. He had a good day at school and walked to the sitter's with his best friends, Winston and Billy." Stoker took another deep breath. "And about an hour later there was a fire."

His flow of words ceased abruptly, as though someone had tightened down on the line with a hose clamp. Patty prompted him softly, couching her request in the jargon of the fire service: "How'd Captain Stanley size-up the scene when you arrived?"

"Two-story, wood-frame residence. Heavy smoke showing from the rear. Working incident," he said, voice taking on a pedagogical tone. "Plug across the street. Fair skies, moderate humidity, negligible winds. Fuel load typical. No accelerants. One adult reportedly exited the residence at the rear. Smoke from that exit alerted the neighbors and they called the fire department. Upon our arrival, one of the neighbors approached and informed Captain Stanley there were six juveniles inside." Stoker took another deep breath, emotion seeping back into his words as he continued to talk, departing from the formal incident report. "We, we went in, all of us did, to find the kids. Cap, John and Chet went one way; Marco, Roy and I went the other along the central hallway."

Mike paused again, returning to the fire. "The point of origin for the fire was in a centrally-located kitchen on the first floor. There was plenty of air and wood to feed it but it spread slowly at first, chewing each bit of fuel thoroughly before reaching out for more. Fire is greedy, you know. It'll follow the air, the fuel. So when _that woman_ left the kids to – ." Patty could feel the hitch in his breathing, heard him swallow. "When she left the residence, the influx of air from the open door pulled the fire away from the playroom. And toward the nursery."

"Which way did you go?"

He didn't answer her directly, caught up in remembering, in putting the scene back together in his mind. "We moved down the hall together, Marco on the nozzle then Roy then me. We could hear the fire all around us, see it vaguely through the smoke. Marco pushed the flames back with the water so we could advance and Roy moved fast, in each door, quick search and then out. The deeper into the house we went, the hotter it became. We were about to turn the corner when I heard Cap's voice behind me."

"What did he say?" It was the smallest question she could ask. _Keep him talking._

"He sent me to the other end of the house. They, Johnny and Chet and Cap, had found the older four just off the kitchen, in this playroom. Hank grabbed Billy – he'd been right at the door – and backtracked to the front room. He sent me to help with the others, leaving Marco and Roy to search for the nursery." His chest rose and fell underneath her head like ocean waves. "I followed the hose back, until I reached the playroom. Chet was still on the hose, to give Johnny and me a chance to get the kids out. Johnny picked up Winston and headed out. Then I – ." Stoker broke off and turned away for a moment, staring across the lightly shaded lawn and back into the fire in his memory.

"_Stoker!" Cap's voice cut through the hot cacophony around them and Mike twisted toward him, seeing his hunched over form dimly through the smoke. Roy had just entered another room to search; Marco was directing the stream of water onto as many surfaces as he could. Mike tapped Lopez on the shoulder and withdrew when the other man nodded, pausing to yank another length of hose into the fire to aid the lineman's inevitable advance. "Found four … down the hall." Once Hank delivered the message, he turned, coughing, and headed outside, the precious bundle under his turnouts._

_He was about two-thirds of the way down the hallway when it happened. A misstep, a twitch of the hose, something, and he fell forward onto the hose he was following to the playroom. Mike had been low to the floor, the lack of an SCBA forcing him to seek the bottom layer already, so the fall was minor, the recovery quick. Instinctively, he began crawling with one hand on the hose, fire academy drills taking over. When he came through the door at the end, Gage had picked up one child and Kelly was still taking aim at the hotspots. "Get the kids!" Chet yelled as Mike darted forward and grabbed the boy and the girl by their shirts, dragging them toward the door after Johnny. The lineman dropped the hose a few seconds later and moved to pick up the girl while Stoker – ._

"I picked him up – Michael, I picked _Michael_ up off the floor. And I carried him out of the smoke and flames, holding him close against my shoulder, trying to protect him." He stopped, drawing one hard breath in through his nostrils. "Even though I knew he was already, already dead."

"Oh, Mike," she whispered, consciously not calling him _Michael_.

"I sat down at the engine and tried to find a pulse. I tried and I tried and I tried and it _just wasn't there_." Patty tensed and he hesitated then, realizing the beautiful young woman nestled against him so trustingly, even now, had probably never seen death up close. It made Stoker feel old, weighed down with the knowledge of death and destruction. He had wanted to talk, to tell her everything, so she could understand the other parts but …. _The details of a child's death?_ _How can I do that to her? She'll remember it, she'll think about it, she'll probably even research it._

"You can tell me anything you need to tell, specialist," Patty said then, looking up at him. _Don't stop now, it's okay. _"Even if it's not … pleasant."

"I don't," he began then stopped, trying to choose his words carefully. "I don't want you to have this knowledge," he finally said, meeting her eyes. "I want you to understand what's going on with me but I really don't want to tell you how it feels to – ." He choked off the words even though the sensations swept through his memory and his eyes closed: the heavy slackness, the waxy skin, the unsubtle effluvium, the sooty teeth ….

"To cradle a dead body?" she guessed. _See, Patty? You can be strong for him._ "That's what you were doing there, weren't you?" _No big deal to think about it – ._

"Yes." He said the word tightly, through his teeth, not wanting to admit even that much to her. She'd seen the boy's picture, when she'd found the newspaper clipping in his Bible weeks ago. He could almost see the picture form in her mind – Stoker clad in smoking turnouts huddled against the fire engine with a small body draped across his lap, thick straight hair hanging down from the head which fell back limply, untied green sneaker dangling half off one foot – .

"Did someone have to pull your hands away too?" she asked, almost curiously, as though seeking confirmation of something she already knew.

_Did someone have to …? _Patty's words jolted Mike and, opening his eyes, he sensed her withdrawal even though she hadn't moved. _I said too much. _She'd closed in on herself. _I went too far. _ It felt as though someone had jerked the warm, comforting blanket of her caring attention off him. _Did someone have to pull your hands away? No. That's not what she said. Did someone have to pull your hands away __too__?_

_Too._ The small word coupled with the sad knowledge in her voice sent his mind scurrying through all the bits of data he had collected about Patty, searching for the connection. It clicked and the words trickled from his lips. "Your mom." He shifted to be able to see her face better, to gauge the effect of those two little words, causing the hammock to swing and their world to spin.

"Yes," she replied without elaboration then pulled her focus back to him, smiling reassuringly. _S'okay, I'm okay. _"So, you see, you _can_ – ."

"I can't," Mike interrupted. "Not yet, at least." He continued to touch her gently, fingers moving lightly through her hair. He told her more already than he thought he could. _I told her more than I should. I hurt her. _He pulled her closer into his body. _Think first next time, Stoker, think._

"It's more than just the Code F, isn't it?" she said after a few quiet minutes, wondering if the jargon would be a springboard a second time. _Stay calm, Patty Mack, stay calm._

"It's more than just the Code F." His body had tensed again, rejecting the gentle prod to say more. "I don't, I _can't_ talk about it." _Yet._ The unspoken word hung between them, a promise and a plea.

She waited a moment, wondering whether he would continue. "Well, when you're ready to talk, specialist, I'm ready to listen, whether that's today, next week or next year." Patty cupped his face lightly for a moment, placing a delicate kiss beside his lips, and felt him relax. She laid her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes once more. _You can cry for him later. Right now, just be calm and reassuring._ She forced the tears prickling against her eyelids away and as their world swayed slightly, she held him as best she knew how, one hand placed protectively over his heart.

=+++= / ===++

_(Later that evening)_

"Uncle Tommy?"

"Patty Mack, what's wrong?" He could always tell when she upset by the lost little girl tone of her voice, especially over the phone like now. _Henry or Mike?_

"I-I was wondering about a fire that Station 51 responded to, about a month ago." She swallowed. "There were some fatalities, some kids?"

"Yes," he said, "I know which fire you mean." _Wonder what Stoker finally told her._

"Mike told me the boy he rescued, that he didn't make it. And Chet, too. I just wondered what happened to-to the other kids? Did they make it? I thought visiting them might help Mike – ."

"Patty," Tom McConnikee began, then sighed. _Forget to tell her all of it, Mike? _"There was nothing anyone, _anyone_ could do."

"I don't – ."

"Baby, _all_ the kids died in the fire." The stunned silence from the other end of the line was broken by a gentle sob. _Go ahead, Patty, cry for them, cry for the living and the dead._

=+++= / =+++=


	9. Catch Me If You Can

**CHAPTER 8: CATCH ME IF YOU CAN**

=+++= / +====

(September 23)

Although the extra rest had done Mike good, Chester B. Kelly had no intention of backing down. Whatever had caused Stoker to start catching shifts as a back-stepper hadn't resolved itself. Talking to him at the station hadn't worked, mainly because Mike wouldn't talk. Dropping by unannounced with a six-pack, ordering a pizza, and having a chat to clear the air seemed to be the next logical step. Since the regular shift schedule had them off for the next four days, it seemed like a perfect time to deal with it – if Mike wasn't subbing somewhere.

After sweet talking the scheduling clerk at HQ, Kelly had been able to confirm Stoker wasn't working _anywhere_ tomorrow. Elaine had also obligingly let slip the engineer was scheduled to work five out of the next eight days, including another double. Station 51 would get the front end of it this time, but that only made Chet more anxious to get to the heart of the matter – there was no guarantee the crew at the other station would be able to differentiate between Quiet Stoker and Worn-out Stoker.

That was how he ended up outside Mike's apartment, shifting the beers from hand to hand as he nervously wiped first one hand and then the other on his jeans. He knocked briskly on Mike's door as the sun was setting, and waited, listening for sounds of life.

He froze when he heard a feminine voice call out: "I'll get it, specialist." _Oh no._ In his preoccupation with what he'd tagged in his own mind as The Stoker Situation, he'd forgotten about Patty. Chet was about to bolt in embarrassment when Patty opened the door – damp hair piled high on her head and one of Mike's t-shirts pulled on over her long, flouncy skirt.

"Hey, Chet, come on in," she invited with a smile. The smell of chicken broth from the kitchen suggested she'd been cooking something for their supper, adding to the domesticity of the moment.

"Oh, I didn't mean to, that is, I don't want to barge in," he mumbled behind his moustache. "I should have called first." _I am dead meat._

"Nonsense, come in," Patty said, grabbing his arm as he started to back away and pulling him inside. _You've got something on your mind. _"We weren't doing anything special, just cleaning up after spending the day at the beach. Have you eaten yet?" She hadn't forgotten the sadness in Kelly's eyes when he'd delivered his message to Mike; Uncle Tommy's elaboration had widened her circle of concern to include the rest of the crew at 51s.

"Oh, Miss McConnikee, you haven't seen my shirt, have you – ," Stoker said as he walked into the room, towel over one bare shoulder, hair slicked back after his shower. "Chet? What's up? Anything wrong?"

"No, I, uh, I just was in the area and thought I'd stop by," he stammered. "I don't mean to intrude."

"I already invited Chet to stay awhile, Mike, and eat with us," Patty put in. "That's okay with you, isn't it?" She impishly snuck a quick kiss onto his jaw, wrapped an arm around his jean-clad waist and, slipping a finger through one of the belt loops, tugged him just a little closer.

"Sure," he replied. "I'll just go find a shirt to put on. The one I laid out seems to have, uh, disappeared. I wonder _where_ it could have ended up," he added, eyeing Patty playfully.

"Gee, I wonder," she responded, a small devilish smile appearing on her face as she slid her free hand casually down the shirt in question – which extended past her hips and featured a Ward LaFrance logo with the words "My other vehicle is a" above it. Chet knew all the engineers at the station had received them when the new rig had been delivered a few years back.

"Uh, right, I shouldn't have, that is, I'll just, uh, talk to you later, okay, Mike?" Chet began edging back toward the door, uncomfortable now at having interrupted their evening. It was obvious Patty was good for Mike. The smile on his face right now was the most natural – albeit slightly lascivious – one Kelly had seen on the engineer's face in weeks. He didn't want to intrude on the good thing Stoker had going. _I should have called first,_ he reprimanded himself, face beginning to pink up in embarrassment, _even if it meant he could have blown me off_.

"Chet, man, don't go," Mike said, moving forward to clap him on the shoulder without completely breaking contact with Patty. "We'll behave."

"Speak for yourself, big guy," Patty shot back, then stuck out her tongue, causing Chet to laugh and, after a moment, nod.

=+++= / ++===

After sharing a simple meal of chicken noodle soup and toasted French bread, the three of them ended up talking while playing rummy for a few hours. Chet soon stopped being embarrassed and started joking more freely, telling Patty stories about things Mike had done at work or play. Every now and again, Mike would growl, "Kelly!" warningly, only to have his vote overridden by Patty's enthusiastic "Do tell!"

When the well of stories had run dry momentarily, Patty noticed Chet sneaking glances at Mike in between studying the cards in his hand. _What's going on here?_ He started to say something then met her eyes and closed his mouth firmly. _Ah, I see._ She checked her own cards and, after Mike discarded, laid down most of her hand with an angelic smile. Both men groaned and spent the next round trying to dump cards, already well aware what that particular smile meant. Patty drew the card she needed two turns later and dropped three aces to the table before tossing the three of hearts on the discard pile.

"I needed that," Mike said with exasperation.

"So did I," Chet put in, glancing at the cards Stoker had just tossed down. _Both of us were going after the same cards. Geez!_

"I know," Patty replied, rubbing in her victory just a little. _Time for a graceful exit._ "Let me know when you're ready for another drubbing, boys." She stood and sauntered across the living room and down the hallway toward the bathroom. Just before she entered the hallway, Patty turned her head and caught Chet's eye. _Say what you came to say._

She made it a point to take her time, even brushing her teeth with the toothbrush she'd stashed at Mike's. Patty lingered in the hallway, out of sight, relieved to hear Chet's more sober tones.

"Mike, you don't mind me telling Patty this stuff, do you?" She heard the cards being fanned together.

"Nah, Chet, not really. She's entitled to know as much about me as she'd like. Besides, your turn'll come one of these days." She could hear the grin in his voice as he said it, a grin confirmed by Chet's answering chuckle. The shuffling of the cards continued.

"Glad your side's better," Chet said suddenly. "A new engineer can be rough on the ribs, especially if you haven't worked together with the other lineman before." There was a pause. "I heard he's doing better so if you pick up more shifts at 86s you shouldn't have any more problems. And, you know, there's this trick to tucking the hose – ."

"Yeah, I know. Took me the better part of two shifts to remember it though." Mike snorted lightly. "It's amazing how many little things you can forget when you don't do something every shift. I used to think I was a pretty good lineman but now I'm not sure I was ever as good as I thought back then."

"Why'd you start picking up shifts on the hoses?" It was the question he'd been trying to get an answer to for weeks. The timing of it had bothered him. Chet knew he'd worked through his own demons unconventionally too. He wasn't sure how many Cajun restaurants he'd eaten at, trying to get past the burnt taste, since – .

"That fire, on Washburne. After, well, that fire, I just needed to reconnect to fundamentals again, I think. To get … involved again." _To be hands on in saving people from the flames._

"I hear ya, babe, I hear ya." There was a small silence then the sound of cards being dealt. "How many more shifts are you thinkin' of workin'? _You_ seem to be … better … too." _Not healed yet, but better._

"I'm scheduled for two more." Another pause. "The other day, in the kitchen. What –."

Chet's deep sigh silenced Mike. "The girl, Maria. I gave her mouth-to-mouth and –."

"Ah." The short syllable, rich with understanding, seemed to rob both men of speech. It was all Patty could do not to peek around the corner and see what was going on. She put one hand against the wall, accidentally brushing against a framed photograph Johnny had given Mike for Christmas last year. The small sound it made when it slid across the vertical surface was apparently enough to break the Chet's reverie.

"Two more shifts, huh?"

"Yeah. I may grab the odd shift every now and again in the future but I've been neglecting some other things that are pretty important to me. I just hadn't realized it."

"Huh. Where is she anyway?"

"You know women and bathrooms."

=+++= / +++==

"Good _night_, Chet," Mike growled for a third time and pushed his friend through the door. Patty laughed delightedly and returned Chet's grin.

"It's okay, Chet. We'll meet for coffee and you can tell me the rest of the story," she said.

"Sure thing. Catch ya later, babe," Chet replied. "Uh, that is, uh, _Miss_ Patty," he stammered hurriedly at Mike's possessive look, backing away with his hands up in mock surrender.

"I'm glad he came over," Patty said once the other man had left. "He's a good guy." _And, he helped you, somehow. I owe him one for that. _She turned to Mike as he pulled her closer, his hands on her hips, her arms stretched up to clasp his shoulders. "Where were we though?"

Stoker answered by kissing her, tasting a faint mouthwash mint now instead of the weird beer Chet had brought. He murmured something against her hair.

"What?"

"I was going to get my shirt back, I think."

"Oh, really? This shirt?" she asked playfully, sliding her hands down her sides and stopping when she reached his hands. Patty twined her fingers into his, dislodging them from her hips. The feel of his hands against hers made her heart beat faster.

"Yep, that's the shirt. You gonna give it back?"

"Hmmm. I dunno. I think it looks pretty good on me. Don't you?" she asked and spun back and away from him to model it.

"I have to admit Ward LaFrance never looked so good." _I may never look at Big Red the same way again, in fact_, he thought to himself wryly.

"If you want it back," she continued, taking another half-step back, "you'll have to," then another, "catch me first!" With that, she darted toward the kitchen. Mike chased after her, abruptly changing course and attempting to cut her off before she could make good her escape down the hall. Two trips around the kitchen bar and she was able to evade him, race down the hallway, yank open a door, and dart through.

Mike slowed as he saw where she went, deliberately stepping into the entrance in a manner which filled the doorway to his bedroom. He eyed her, now on the other side of the bed, catching on to the kind of _recreation_ she seemed to want tonight. Stoker was never quite certain how far she wanted to take these games and treated it like ventilating a roof – testing the way carefully before taking the next step. "Looks like you're trapped, Miss McConnikee," he said with a smirk. "You aren't gonna be getting through me any time soon." He pressed his hands against the doorjambs for emphasis.

"Oh?" she said, walking toward him with a lilting gait that made her skirt sway invitingly. "You don't think I can get by you if I want?" she challenged softly. Patty reached up and kissed his throat. She pressed her palms firmly against his pecs and nuzzled his sternum through the thin cotton of his t-shirt, pulling the fabric taut as she moved down, down, down. When she felt his stomach contract, she smiled to herself, then ducked under Mike's arm to make an escape. _Once more through the apartment and then – oops!_

"Not so fast, Patty Mack," he said, thwarting her by swinging his arm down and catching her by the waist. She laughed and tried to squirm out of his grasp, prompting Mike to use both arms. Keeping her close, he slowly walked her backwards, away from the doorway. "So does _this_ qualify as caught, hon?" he began to ask with a cheeky grin when she suddenly pulled back, letting her body go limp in his arms. The surprise move caused Mike to stumble slightly and they fell toward the bed, Mike rolling to avoid landing on her. With another laugh, Patty scrambled to get back up.

Mike quickly threw one leg over hers, tangling in her skirt as he pinned her firmly to the mattress. He kissed her deeply, unrelentingly exploring her sweetness until she gave a small, breathless moan, all her laughter gone. _Sweet petunia, specialist, how do you manage to do that to me?_

"How 'bout this? Is _this_ caught?" he asked softly then while dribbling kisses over her face, sensing her complete surrender was near. _Easy now, Stoker, easy. Make sure she's with you._

"You still don't have your shirt back," she protested, saying the first semi-coherent thing that came into her mind, causing him to chuckle.

"Hmmm. We'll just see about that." Mike pushed himself up to a sitting position, catching a glimpse of her bright green eyes from under her lashes as he pulled back. He slid his hands up under the hem of the t-shirt and pressed his thumbs into her hip bones, anchoring her to the bed. Almost immediately, Patty's body yielded to his touch and sank deeper into the bed, giving him a startling, almost intoxicating sense of power.

She felt him hesitate, felt him holding her gently, felt his strong hands waiting for her consent. Patty gripped his wrists, not to move them away but to revel for another moment in the anticipation his considerate seduction was stoking in her. The hesitation allowed another semi-coherent thought to streak through her synapses; it shocked her with its raw intensity: _Anything, anything he wants …_. Stoker inched the shirt higher, rubbing small circles on her flesh with his thumbs, and she instinctively arched against his hands, encouraging him. "Ahhh." The small sound slid from her mouth as her hands slid from his wrists, lying limp on the bed beside her.

"Touch me," Mike commanded in a whisper. He dipped down to plant a soft kiss on her lips and met her eyes when his words unexpectedly reduced the willing pliancy in her body.

"I – how?" she asked, a hint of uncertainty coloring her voice, eyes shifting from his. _Does he want something in particular? How should I – ._

"Just touch me," he repeated gently, pulling back slightly to allow her access to his body. _However you want to, hon._

Her soft hands slipped tentatively under the dark blue shirt he wore, then slid up his body swiftly, pushing the fabric up to reveal the tanned skin and fine dark hairs of his stomach. Patty gripped his sides, fingernails gliding lightly over his skin, then pulled herself up to plant a kiss on Mike's lower sternum, right at the xiphoid process. _Ah, there, she's with me alright. _He slipped his hands around to her lower back, supporting her lightly, and allowed her to take the lead. She continued upward until the shirt met the obstacle of his arms. "I want this," Patty said and tugged at his shirt, a smile playing across her lips.

"Oh?" he said with a smile then obliged her by releasing his hold on her and lifting his arms to facilitate her request. There was no hurry. He looked forward to _slowly_ peeling what had _just_ become his favorite t-shirt from her beautiful body and – .

Three sharp blasts of a vehicle horn sounded from the parking lot, startling them both and slicing through the sexual tension crisply. Mike recognized the peculiar warble of the horn when it repeated. "Not funny, Chester B., not funny," he muttered darkly.

Laughing, Patty took advantage of the opportunity and stripped the shirt over Stoker's head in a flash, clutching it to herself as she fell back to the bed. "That's _two_ shirts to me, specialist!" she said triumphantly. Hair ruffled and shirtless again, Mike joined her laughter then leaned close to deposit a series of soft kisses on her lips, jaw, throat.

"Two shirts to you, Patty Mack," he murmured. "Two shirts to you." Mike pulled back only enough to search her face, fingers weaving into her hair. "Do I get another chance to get one or more of them back?" _What's your pleasure, sweetie? A return to sanity or – ._ A brisk knock on the front door answered for her; Mike met it with a growl. "If that's Chet too, I'm gonna hang him from the hose tower by his toes." Patty giggled at the thought as Stoker pushed himself up and stalked down the hallway. He opened the door, ready to castigate Chet thoroughly, but the words stuck in his throat.

"Mom? Dad?" he squeaked instead. "What are you doing here?"

"Michael, for goodness sake, put your shirt on," Mary Stoker admonished and stepped past him calmly, surveying her son's usually neat apartment with interest. "And comb your hair." Dishes in the sink, a pile of playing cards on the table, a purse and shoes beside the couch, throw pillows strewn about the living room, lampshade decidedly askew. _Looks like someone's been playing games in here._ As she moved further into the apartment, she heard a door close down the hall and smiled to herself. _So __that's__ why that nice young man from Mike's station was honking his horn._

"We hadn't seen you in a while and we _are_ leaving in just a few days," Charles Stoker said, "so Mother and I decided to come visit _you_." He followed his wife inside and closed the door. "You may want to wipe that lipstick off before your mother sees it, son," he added in a low voice, blue eyes twinkling merrily, and chuckled at the blush that engulfed his son from waist to whiskers.

=+++= / =+++=


	10. Hopscotch

**CHAPTER 9: HOPSCOTCH**

=+++= / +====

(30 September)

"Hey, take it easy!" he exclaimed as the sudden movement jolted his leg and sent a wave of pain through his body. _Less than two hours into my last extra shift and this has to happen. Great job, Stoker, great job._

"Sorry," Ben said. "It's a little slick out here."

"Yeah, I noticed that," Mike replied dryly, thinking about how he'd discovered that fact just ten minutes earlier.

The run had sounded fairly routine based on the dispatch – an MVA on one of the interstate highway's many interchanges. Arriving on scene, 86s had found an overloaded delivery truck had rammed a small tanker filled with cooking oil, causing oil to leak and coat the surface of the swooping high-angle ramp. Mike had been working about halfway up the ramp, trying to dam the oil and prevent its further spread. He'd stepped wrong, missed the guide rope Captain Franklin had ordered strung to prevent just this kind of incident, and half-slid, half-tumbled down to the bottom of the ramp. Fortunately, he was wearing bunker pants, so he was spared the extremely ugly road rash he would have acquired in regular pants. Unfortunately, his gear didn't prevent him from bruising his knee. Or whacking his ribs. Or hyperextending his hip.

=+++= / ++===

"McConnikee residence, this is Patty."

"Hey, cuz, it's Ben."

"Benji-boo! How are you?" _Rhyming queen, more than seventeen._

"I'm good. Listen, – ."

"Did you need to talk to Daddy? He's around here somewhere, laddie." _Rollin' now, don't have a cow._

"No, I called to talk to you, to tell you something." He paused, not sure how to proceed. _I should have just let Tommy tell her._

"I'm listening," she chirped merrily, thinking more about the coming evening than whatever Ben was trying to say. If everything went as planned, Mike would be over in time for supper; his last overtime shift would be a short one. Her father had promised to be on his best behavior and not scowl at him too much. She tucked the phone against her shoulder and went back to washing the potatoes. The white, extra-long cord stretching back to the wall-mount phone jiggled lightly as she gouged out the eyes and various nicks in the tubers before chunking them and dropping them into the crockpot.

"Uh, well, it's like this. We were called out to this traffic accident. And one of the guys got hurt."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Was it a bad accident?"

"No, not really – look, Patty, it's Mike."

"Mike?" The knife in her hand trembled. _My Mike?_

"Stoker. He's the one who got hurt. He's in the hospital."

"_Which hospital?!_"

"The ambulance took him to Rampart."

"Dad!" The phone clattered from her shoulder to the floor.

"Patty! Wait a minute!" he shouted into the phone. _Benjamin, you are an idiot. A blooming idiot!_

=+++= / +++==

"Do you live on the first floor?"

"Second." He ground out the answer between clenched teeth.

"That could be a problem, unless there's an elevator?"

"Nope." _Whoa, there. Won't be shaking my head like that again._

"You're probably going to need some help getting around for a while, and not just with the stairs. Do you have anyone who can help?"

"I can manage."

"Maybe in seven to ten days you'll be able to tend to yourself, but not immediately. If you want to stay in the hospital a few extra days until you can arrange something, I'm sure we can work that out."

"No, ma'am, thank you. I'd rather just go home." He tried to compose his face as he met the nurse's eyes but her knowing smile suggested he'd been less than successful.

"Well, you won't be going anywhere until tomorrow at the earliest." The veteran nurse knew when to pick her battles. By tomorrow, he'd be feeling his injuries a little more and might drop the macho-I-can-take-care-of-myself routine.

"I'll make a few calls and arrange to have someone pick me up and help me stock up on groceries. Once I'm in my place, I'll be fine."

"Uh-huh." _Firemen and cops, they always gotta play it tough_, she thought.

=+++= / ++++=

"Rampart Emergency. Nurse McCall." The crisp greeting tumbled into Hank's ear after one ring. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the towel his wife handed him when she'd called him to the phone ten minutes before, grateful a nurse he knew had answered.

"Miss McCall, it's Hank Stanley from Station 51?"

Dixie smiled, amused by the way Hank identified himself. "Captain Stanley, what can I do for you?" she asked, adding silently, _as if I didn't know._ She pulled Stoker's chart from the rack in anticipation.

"I understand one of my men was brought in not too long ago. Mike, Mike Stoker," he clarified then forged ahead. "I was wondering if you could tell me how, how he was doing and what the extent of his injuries are."

"Well, he took quite a tumble apparently but he's going to be just fine." The release of pent-up breath on the other end of the line confirmed Dixie's high opinion of the fire captain. "He's going to be here for a few days and …."

=+++= / +++++

(October 3)

Mike wasn't frustrated, not exactly. He was just feeling clumsy and confused, thanks in part to those stupid pain meds Dixie had popped into his mouth a few hours back. "Patty, it's not that I don't appreciate your willingness to help, but … uh, I think I'm a little bit big for you to handle on your own." _There's something wrong with what I just said but I can't figure out what it is. Oh, well._ "I'll just call one of the guys and have him meet us at my place. Once I climb my apartment, the stairs'll be fine on their own." _Wait, I can't call the guys. They're on duty. Or, are they? Got hurt on duty so that's on one, then there's two off, one on, so that's today. But no, they were off that day, so it's one on, two off for them but one on for me, one off for me, then two on for them – no, wait, I __know__ that's not right. Why can't I think? Those pills. Never trust a smiling Dixie, that's the new rule – ._

"Specialist, why would you have anyone meet us at your place?" she asked sweetly, breaking into his rambling thoughts.

"Because that's where we're going?" She began to slowly shake her head at him, green eyes sparkling. _There's something not fair about this. _"That's not where we're going?" _I should know where I'm going. Is she trying to take advantage of me? _She nodded. "Uh, do I want to know where we're going?"

"Our house."

"Uh, our house?" _When did we get a house? Houses are nice. All I got is an apartment. We don't got no house. No, no, no, I got it. Our house would be __her__ house, and it's __our__ house because that's where her father lives too. Next time Dixie can take those pills herself, see how she likes it._

"Yup. There's plenty of room, it's all one level, and it'll be easier for _me_ to take care of _you_ if we're under the same roof." _Focus now, Stoker. Patty plus Daddy equals our house. Got it. Yeah for me. Wait. __Mikey__ plus Patty plus Daddy equals, uh, equals … wait, Mikey? Did I just call myself Mikey? Those pills were a bad idea like this Mike and the McConnimees move-in thingie. Surely Daddy doesn't think – ._

"Daddy thinks this is a good idea?" _Uh-oh, I called him Daddy. Oopsie. _"I mean, you've heard his 'Revenge of the Clan McConni-conni, er, Mc-Monkey-nee' speech, right?" _Loved that speech. Rolls off the tongue. Gonna use it when I have girls of mine own … girls with big green eyes …. _

"He offered," Patty said, with a tiny smile, recalling the look on her father's face when she had explained she'd be at Mike's _a lot_ otherwise. "Okey-dokey?"

"Okey-dokey, artichoke-y. Parakeets are parsnip treats." _Wait, did I just say that aloud?_

=+++= / =++++

When the McConnikees moved into the house about three years after Morgan's accident, the interior looked substantially different than when Henry had first considered buying it. Henry had gutted the house completely, doing away with most of the attic space so the ceilings could be raised, removing all non-load bearing walls, relocating plumbing fixtures with impunity, and adding a wide double door to the back wall. The house which took shape in its place had been designed with Morgan and her needs in mind. Doorways and hallways were wide enough for wheelchairs. The few ramps that were needed had been integrated into the design and seemed to emphasize the flow of life from one space to the next instead of the need for a wheelchair-friendly slope. High ceilings, abundant windows, and natural breezeways created an airy feeling akin to being outside, alleviating some of his invalid wife's sensation of being cooped-up. Within a year, a smallish room at the back of the house had been outfitted with rudimentary physical therapy equipment and updated periodically.

In addition to complying with the technical specs necessity had thrust upon them, Henry had tried to make it a welcoming place, especially for family members and occasional professionals who would be helping care for Morgan. The guest 'room' was in truth a second master suite with a full bath and a generous bedroom. It had seen a lot of use over the years.

The current guest room was decorated in light shades of green and blue. The furniture, a distressed antique white, reminded Mike of birch trees and strengthened the impression of being in a forest in the mountains. Light streamed through the open windows, bathing the queen-sized bed in golden yellow. Sitting on the bed, he could just see heavy rolled blinds tucked beneath the valance. In just a moment, the room could be darkened to allow a tired guest to sleep through the day after being up during the night.

_Sleep. Not a bad idea. _

The car ride from the hospital to his apartment – where a smiling Gage had been waiting with a packed duffel which he readily supplemented with a green pepper, a blue washcloth, and a Scooby-Doo coloring book at Mike's slurred request – then to the pharmacy, and finally to Patty's had sapped his reserves. Silliness from the narcotic had mostly retreated from his brain, returning control of his tongue to him, but walking on crutches, even the short distance into the house, had been enough to tire him.

"So, do you want to take a nap? You _look_ tired. Or, do you want something to eat? After the hospital food, I'm sure you would like something more edible and tasty. I can make some grilled cheese sandwiches and heat up some soup in no time at all. Or, if you want to take a shower, I can get the bathroom ready and then have Nicky come over in case you need help. He's going into physical therapy so he's got experience in helping injured people. Or, maybe you'd just like something to drink? Obviously, you can't have any alcohol but maybe some iced tea? Or coffee? I can make you some coffee. Do you want something to read? Sorry there's no television in here. I didn't think about that, sorry, I should have. Or maybe you want to sleep? That might be the best. And, don't worry about elevating your leg – the bed is adjustable. Or, did you want food or – ?"

"Patty, stop," Mike said when she'd started repeating herself, her nervousness plainly evident. Her mouth snapped shut, her eyes staring at him in mild confusion. "Come sit down over here," he continued, patting the bed beside him. He'd sunk down onto the bed about halfway through her anxious flood of words. "Now, take a few deep breaths and let them out slowly." He put his arm around her, pulling her into his uninjured side. "Okay?" _She feels good there._

"I just want to take good care of you," she said, ducking her head like a little girl.

"You're doing just fine, hon," Mike responded, her innocent earnestness causing him to smile. "There is one thing you might be able to help me with," he added, recognizing her need to be reassured.

"Name it."

"I've got this … uh, well, I guess you could call it … an ache."

"Oh, your leg! I'll get your pain meds." He tightened his grip before she could get away. _Stay right here, sweetheart. _

"No, it's not my leg. Or my ribs."

"Where does it hurt then?" She pulled back and glared at him. "Do you have another injury you didn't tell – ."

"This is where it … aches … Nurse McConnikee," he said, pronouncing her surname carefully, and pointed to his lips.

"Hmm, maybe I could kiss it and make it better?" she said and wet her lips slightly, smiling now herself.

"I'd really appreciate if you'd try," he said as gravely as he could.

"Let me know if I hurt you, 'kay?" she said, reaching up to him. "I'd hate to make things worse." He pulled her closer against him with one arm, capturing her hand and guiding it away from his tender ribs and to his mostly intact shoulder with the other.

"That's good therapy," Stoker murmured against her hair several minutes later. "I feel much better now." He inhaled carefully to offset the oxygen debt caused by prolonged kissing with bruised ribs. _Too bad I'm really not up for more than this. She feels really good next to me. _

"Do you want me to stop?" Patty gently nipped his earlobe while waiting for a reply, oblivious to his limitations.

"Honestly, no, I don't," he said with a still-breathless laugh. "But I think we'd better. Somehow, I don't think your father would be too happy to find his daughter and his new house guest all wrapped up in the sheets ten minutes after walking or hobbling, as the case may be, through the front door."

On the other side of the bedroom door, Henry exhaled silently and unclenched his fist. _You got that right, kid._

"You're too important for me to risk getting on his bad side," Mike continued. "Now, what were you saying about soup?" Henry heard Patty's dramatic sigh and smiled. _Don't trust you yet, Stoker, but you're starting out pretty good._

=+++= / ==+++

"Daddy?"

"Yes, dear?"

"Where are the cards?"

"There should be some in the table behind the couch. Why?"

"I thought Mike and I could play cards in his room for a while before bed. He's been working so many extra shifts, we've got some catching up to do. I've, well, I've missed being with him. Mom always said it was a good way to get started – ."

"Patricia! I cannot believe you would – ." Henry stopped, embarrassed. _You've been here for a few hours now, Stoker, so that means it's okay to, to, uh, with my – ?_

"Daddy? What's wrong with just playing cards and talking?"

"Talking?"

"Talking. Why? What did you think I meant?"

"Never mind," he muttered. "How 'bout we all play cards, out here? It'll give me a chance to get to know Mike better. If he's up to it, that is."

"Uh, okay. I'll go see while you set up the card table?"

"Sure thing, sweetie, sure thing." Henry smiled reassuringly. _If you gave our daughter all your secrets, Morgan, that boy doesn't stand a chance._

=+++= / ===++

(October 4)

"Stoker? You need any help this morning?" Henry's voice floated down the hallway, startling Mike.

"Uh, no, sir, I think I can manage." He thought he'd kept most of the frustration with the process of wrapping his leg out of his voice. Knees were easy enough but the hip was a different story. To his embarrassment, Patty had served him breakfast in bed but he was determined to make it to the table for lunch. Which meant wrapping his hip, getting his clothes on and hobbling to the kitchen. Somehow. The trip to the bathroom this morning had been taxing enough, making him aware of just how sore he really was. _Just have to push through it._

"Hip injuries are a bitch to wrap, aren't they?" Henry responded from the doorway, leaning against the doorjamb casually, coffee cup in his hand. He took in the extra-long Ace bandage piled up next to Mike on the bed.

"Uh, they're a challenge, yes."

"Want me to wrap it for you?" _My baby's sure not gonna be doing it for you, kid._

"You've done a hip wrap before?"

"Multiple times," he said dryly. At the young man's puzzled look, Henry continued, "My wife was an invalid for over a decade, remember? I picked up a few things in that time."

"Right. Sorry." _C'mon, Stoker, pull it together._ "I'd appreciate the help, sir."

Henry pushed himself upright and headed for the dresser on the far wall. "Go ahead and roll that bandage back up, will you, while I get the tape. Oh, did you want to wear sweats or scrubs over it today?"

"Sweats are fine," Mike replied as he hunted for one end of the bandage. "They should be in the duffel over there."

"Not likely," Henry said with a snort and pulled open the second drawer to reveal a portion of Mike's neatly folded clothing.

"How did –?"

"Patty unpacked for you last night. She said you didn't even twitch once." Henry pulled the sweats from the drawer, closed it and then opened the bottom-most drawer. "Those pain pills hit you pretty hard, don't they?" After rummaging around for a minute, he pulled out two rolls of medical tape.

"Sometimes, yeah." _One way or another_, Mike thought remembering his verbal excursions of the day before_._

"Okay, ready to get wrapped up?" Henry stood over him.

"Ready."

"Upsy-daisy then," he said and held out his arms to provide a solid support so Mike could pull himself up. "Let's see, where's a – I know." Henry took a step toward the nightstand, pulled open the top drawer and grabbed a hardback book from its recesses. "Okay, now, rest your foot on this, and turn your leg out slightly." Henry dropped the book to the floor, then crouched down next to it. "Grab my shoulder if you need to, for balance."

"Is that a _Bible_?" Stoker said in surprise, hesitantly putting his heel on the purple cover.

"Yup, it's even a Gideon Bible," Henry said with a grin up at him. "What else would you expect from Patty Mack's Bed, Breakfast and Rehab Center?" he asked and Mike laughed. "Let me have the wrap. And off with your shirt. I don't want it to bind under this thing."

"Yes, sir," Mike said, pulling off his t-shirt and dropping it on the bed behind him. He felt Henry's hand on his leg, deftly manipulating it into a better position, and he wobbled slightly. The man's shoulder was far out of reach. "Uh, could you pass me that crutch?"

"I guess you are a bit taller than my wife," Henry replied with a bit of chuckle, reaching for the crutch propped against the other side of the nightstand. "Here you go," he said, handing Stoker the crutch and waiting until he was steady before starting.

Henry placed the end of the elastic bandage on the front of Mike's mid-thigh and, wrapping toward the outside of his leg, made two passes around the thigh before angling it up. He continued around the hip, across Mike's lower back to the other hip, around his waist and back again, then down across his groin to his outer thigh, behind the leg and back to the front. Henry then repeated the figure-eight pattern encompassing the hips and thigh, omitting the extra lap around the waist, until the entire length was used, finishing with an extra loop around the thigh. "Hold this right here," he said, placing Mike's hand on the end. Henry repeated the route with stretchable elastic tape before securing the end with standard medical tape. "How's that feel?" he asked Stoker when he finished.

"Good, sir."

"Not too tight anywhere?"

"No, it's good," Mike reiterated, carefully lifting his leg to test his range of movement. He felt a quick stab of pain and stopped abruptly, mindful of the doctor's admonitions. When he eased the leg back down, the pain subsided. _Good._

"I'll be glad to wrap it for you every morning, or whenever you need it," Henry said, tossing the unused supplies across the room and into the still-open drawer before standing up. "I can also help you with your physical therapy exercises."

"Patty already offered to help with those," Mike admitted. "But, actually, I'm used to doing things pretty much on my own." To prove his point, he dropped the sweats he had neatly cufffed onto the floor and toed first one foot then the other into the legs. A modified one-legged squat brought his hand within reach of the top edge of the sweats and back up with only a faint grimace of pain. _Bad idea, Stoker._

_Nice, kid, nice – but I saw that look. _"Nonetheless, the offer still stands. And, when Patty runs out of personal time at work – ."

Mike paused in the middle of sliding the sweats over his hips, frowning. "I thought she said she had a couple of weeks coming to her."

Henry smiled, amused by Mike's innocence when it came to sweet Patty Mack's machinations. "She does, in a way," he said, ticking the points off on his fingers. "The rest of this week is fall break at the university. She told me she planned to use all of her vacation and sick time to be off for the two weeks or so after that. When that time was used up, she said something about working half-days until you returned to duty."

"All of her – she doesn't need to do that! I mean, in a few days, I'll be able to take care of myself anyway."

"Given the look of the bruises you're sporting, I think it'll be more than a few days before you're able to look after yourself completely. How long do you think it'll be until you can _bend_ enough to wrap your hip on your own, eh?" He moved over to the dresser and pushed the drawer shut with one foot, sliding the third drawer open to reveal a selection of neatly folded t-shirts. Henry raised an eyebrow at Stoker who nodded. "Patty can be a little stubborn – you may have noticed that – especially if she's in caregiver mode. She won't be happy if you try to leave before _she_ thinks you're up for it. No, I'd say you better expect to be _here_ for a week or more." He paused to let that sink in, tossing one of the shirts to Mike. "And, then you can expect her to check on you once or twice a day, and provide all your meals."

"That's _really_ not necessary." Mike caught the shirt one-handed, careful not to aggravate his ribs.

"She'll also want to do other things for you. Like clean your apartment. Do your laundry. Rearrange your sock drawer. Get the oil changed in your truck. That kind of thing." Henry kept his face neutral as he sipped more coffee from the cup he'd retrieved from the nightstand, enjoying the look of dismay creeping over Mike's face.

"Are you _serious_?"

"Yup." Henry grinned. "Did I ever mention Patty is a lot like her momma?"

=+++= / =+++=

_This story is going in directions I didn't anticipate so there's gonna be some rearranging of the next few chapters I thought I had already completed. Sorry for the delay._


End file.
